


Screaming Into the Void

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Dark, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Slash, Sad Bruce Wayne, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-09-01 16:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: "Depression was a jealous, heartless, creature that liked its victims to be alone. It didn’t like to share. When you were in the pit, you believed you wanted to be there."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is close to home for me. I've struggled with depression, anxiety, and my adhd my whole life. It's an ongoing thing that is never going to go away. So, forewarning, there are triggers for suicide, depression, cutting, drug overdose, and anxiety. Bruce Wayne seemed like the type to struggle with mental illness so that's what I'm going with. That means this one isn't going to be canon compliant. 
> 
> Also, I'm writing this at almost two in the morning, so please forgive the errors I know I will miss. 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own the story.  
> Thanks for reading.

He didn’t always know when a darker spell was coming. And he should, he really should, because dealing with them was nothing new.

Bruce was a professional at this point in his life; an expert. But sometimes, there wasn’t enough time to prepare. There weren’t enough signals that meant the darkness was coming and that it had crept under the door without his notice. Sometimes, God, sometimes, he’d be blindsided when the darkness came to roost and he realized he was alone and in a pit so deep he couldn’t see the light anymore. Oftentimes, he didn’t want to. It was the nature of the disease. Depression was a jealous, heartless, creature that liked its victims to be alone. It didn’t like to share. When you were in the pit, you believed you wanted to be there.

That was the way it worked.

At least, for long stretches of time. The other stretches, you woke up from the dream and realized you were covered in filth and that it was cold in the pit and you didn’t really like it at all. Those were the worst moments. Because the clarity was so sharp it was visceral and merciless. It ripped your guts out and made you wail for mercy. It made you pray and scream and claw at the muddied sides of your pit in desperation to get out, because you didn’t actually want to be there anymore.

Bruce knew the measurements of the pit. He knew the smell of it and the texture. He’d been there so many times, in so many different ways throughout his life, he could draw it out on paper and make it come alive like a fucking Disney storybook.

Nobody understood depression, or anxiety, or mental illness. Unless they had it. Not even if they had a family member who was afflicted. Because it was different than other illnesses that could be quantified with blood samples or foreign microbials. It was something that transcended logical thought. It was insidious and silent. A killer with no face and who often left no traces.

It was bigger than science or something physical that could be grasped or cupped in work-worn hands. It was more than pill bottles hiding in cabinets and sticky notes papered to mirrors and inner monologues of ‘Just one more day. One more.’ It was so much bigger. So much uglier.

So, Bruce should have known when he was sinking, and starting to flag, because he’d experienced it before. But he didn’t. He didn’t notice until his usually clean work space was piled with crumpled papers and empty coffee cups. He didn’t notice until the bags under his eyes were heavy and he skipped patrol for a week solid, citing weather or exhaustion or what have you. He didn’t notice until he was staring blankly at his bedroom wall, still in bed though it was well into the afternoon and realized his face was wet because he was crying and didn’t remember starting.

Alfred tried to be helpful. Because Alfred knew Bruce and knew him well. But there wasn’t always something to be done by someone on the outside. In fact, there often was nothing to be done. Depression was a dark creature that insisted the only way out of it, was through it and all by oneself. Even so, Alfred did what he always did. He tried. How could he not? He cared and so he cared in the only ways he knew how.

Bruce was asked about his medications.

Was he taking them? Absolutely. He never stopped. Ever.

He couldn’t imagine what would happen if he wasn’t. The frightening whispers he dealt with about simply never waking up when he was _medicated_ might become promises rather than suggestions. He didn’t like to entertain the notion, just to be on the safe side. His thoughts were already a violent jungle of self-hatred and bitter brokenness when medicated. What would happen if he wasn’t?

Disaster.

Should he go back to therapy? Probably. Should he have ever left? No. Yes? He was doing better; had been anyways—for a time.

He should go back. Yes? Yes.

Bruce didn’t want to. It felt like admitting defeat in an oddly nasty way. It felt like he should be able to control himself and his thought life without involving outside help. But whenever he got in the pit, like he was, he wasn’t always reasonable. And Alfred had never steered him wrong before. So, he set up an appointment and marked it in several places, so he’d remember. His memory was one of the first places to go when he was in the pit.

It could be outright debilitating.

He managed to get out of bed, dress himself, and show up on time. The woman he’d been seeing for the last fifteen years was somehow still in practice and had seen him through every episode of the pit he could remember. She was in her sixties, with steel gray hair that she left loose and curled and long down her narrow shoulders. She didn’t like being called doctor or anything that sounded ‘stuffy’. She preferred that Bruce call her Grace and so he had ever since he’d stumbled into door and sat on her gaudy red leather sofa.

It never felt like any time had passed when he ended up back on that couch, with his hand folded between his knees and his eyes glued to the thick woven carpeting. But it had been close to two years since he’d sat on that couch.

“It’s been a long time Bruce.”

He was tempted to look up, to see Grace’s navy-blue eyes which were never judgmental or harsh but stopped himself. Sometimes it was easier to talk if he wasn’t looking at her, if he focused on the thread count in the carpet or thought of being somewhere else. Anywhere else.

“Has it?”

Shuffling papers, the snicker of a pen tracing paper, “It’s been twenty-two months since you last sat in my office. That’s quite a long time. Almost two years.”

“I suppose.”

“Why are you here?”

Bruce shifted, the sofa creaked under his weight and he felt the snap of something like irritation clog up his throat. “Why else am I here? Why have I been coming here for the last fifteen years?”

She said nothing.

Minutes ticked by and the clock’s metronome filled the space between them until he could barely stand it.

He finally looked up and found Grace watching him with an expression not unlike the many times he’d been here before. Something between soft and firm. Expectant and but patient. She’d wait him out. She’d withstand any amount of ire or rage or pain. She’d proven that. It still felt like shredding his insides with a broken bottle every time he forced himself to open up and purge.

Bruce still hated it. He still wished it didn’t feel so dreadfully like splaying himself naked on an altar.

“I’m in a bad spot,” he swallowed, “Again.”

“OK.”

“OK?” he whispered, grinding his teeth, “OK?”

“Yes,” she inhaled softly, putting the pen and paper down to reach across the space and grasp one of his wrists. No one else could get away with touching him uninvited and not receive a bloody nose for their trouble. But Grace had been silently doing this sort of thing for years. And it was grounding. Grace’s hands were soft and slightly wrinkled with age. They were gentle as they sought out his hand and gripped it firmly. “Tell me about it.”

He wanted to tell her it was nothing she hadn’t heard before. It was nothing new. It was always the same. But he didn’t.

“It’s dark.”

She nodded.

“I’m—” Bruce let the brush of her thumb on his wrist soothe the deeply shaken part of himself that absolutely abhorred the weakness he couldn’t control. “I’m alone and it feels like there isn’t any way out right now. Like I’ll never make it out again.”

“Was there events which precipitated this? Things that made it worse?”

“Not really.”

She lifted a brow.

Honesty was just as hard. “Yes.”

Grace smiled softly, “Tell me.”

Bruce thought of the weeks leading up to now. He thought of the way he’d not really recognized that he was sinking until it was too late and then he found himself dangerously on the verge of crying. Dangerously on the verge of falling apart in front of a woman that hadn’t laid eyes on him in almost two fucking years.

He didn’t want to be here, doing this. Not again.

“My birthday. It’s hard every year but this year—this year I couldn’t help but to think I’m older than my father ever was.”

Grace nodded, “That’s a hard time for any child who loses a parent.”

It didn’t always feel like he had the right to grieve that. Like he’d not earned it. But it ached, a painful shredding pain that left him breathless and weak and frail. It made him feel so very bitter that his father was never, nor would he ever be as old as he was now. 

“It shouldn’t have been so difficult. Things have been better. I’ve been better. I thought. But then—then—” She waited, he fumbled over the words and then finally spat them out like they were venom on his tongue, “Then Talia showed up.”

“She is a very triggering person for you.”

“She can drop dead for all I care but she’s Damian’s mother and I can’t just shut her out of his life.”

“Maybe not. Have you told him what she is to you? What she’s done?”

“No,” Bruce shook his head, “And I never will. That isn’t something a ten-year-old boy should be worried about. He doesn’t need to know.”

“Alright, let’s put that aside for now. Did she say anything that was particularly upsetting to you?”

“Not really.”

“Her presence is upsetting enough.”

“Yes. Every time I see her it brings up—it makes me think of memories I wish were gone and buried.”

“Memories of your Uncle Phillip.”

Bruce flinched.

He avoided saying the name. He avoided even thinking of it because it was like slipping into a black hole and once he got close it sucked him in and refused to let up. It _ruined_ him for days on end when he visited those memories.

Talia and everything she’d put him through, made it feel like the walls he’d erected to protect himself over the years were paper thin and suspect to destruction.

He despised her for that.

“Yes.”

Grace sighed, “Bruce, these are understandable events to set you back.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

They lapsed into silence once again but this time, it felt more comfortable. Bruce didn’t feel like he was going to choke on it.

“Are you making any plans, Bruce?”

He’d heard the question before. It was still something that jolted him. That reminded him the inner workings of his mind did not go unnoticed by all. Grace knew where his brain and those like it went. She knew that it wasn’t just desolation and darkness.

It was also plotting ways to escape the pain. 

“I—” he looked at his feet. At the expensive loafers he’d donned because Alfred had laid them out. “Yes.”

“Are you afraid you might go through with any of these plans?”

“That I might kill myself?” he asked, voice stinging and bitter. Angry.

She’d not let go of his hand, her grip remained unchanged. Her voice was soft and warm. “Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”

He shrugged both shoulders, “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Are you going to put me in a hospital if I don’t say the right thing?”

When he was a pre-teen, before Grace, he’d spent almost a year in an asylum for trying to slit his wrists. He’d been previously un-medicated and had come dangerously close to succeeding. That place left it’s mark just as strongly as Uncle Phillip had.

If there was anything he feared more than the pit, it was being locked up like a rabid animal.

“You know I won’t.”

Bruce risked looking up and wondered how the woman’s eyes could look so unchanged despite the thousands of horror stories she had been told. She still looked young, despite the wrinkles and the gray hair. She looked unaffected despite the ugliness she must encounter daily. He envied her that ability.

“I am—concerned.”

“That sounds a little politically correct for my taste.”

“Do you want me afraid?”

Grace nodded, “Yes. I want you to be completely aware of where your thoughts are taking you, so you can head them off. If you leave them alone and let them fester within, they are more dangerous to you. Outside, they lose power because the reality of enacting whatever plans you’ve made, isn’t as good when they’ve been discussed. So, tell me, what plans have you made?”

“I—I haven’t—” Bruce swallowed convulsively, “I’ve only thought that it might be easier just to—take a handful of pills or—” he looked up briefly then quickly away from Grace, “Or inject myself with something.”

“That would be efficient. But who would find you?”

Bruce blinked at the carpet. “Alfred.”

  
“No one else?”

“Possibly Dick or—”

“Damian?”

“Y-yes. Possibly him.”

“And then what?”

Bruce sagged back into the sofa, relinquishing Grace’s hand to curl in on himself. “Nothing. Then it would finally be nothing.”

“For you maybe. For everyone else, your family, it would only be the beginning of a very hard road.”

“I know.”

“Yes,” Grace agreed, “We’ve discussed this before. But you need to go over it again. And again. However many times it takes you to feel less like that edge isn’t too far off and easier to leap off. Have you spoken to anyone else about this? Does anyone else know?”

“Alfred.”

“He knows you’ve been making plans and struggling?”

Bruce sighed, “He knows I’ve been doing poorly. It’s not something I can exactly hide from him.”

“But you can hide it from your boys. Have you been?”

“They don’t need to know.”

“Don’t they? Depression is a dangerous thing when left in hiding. It’s not something you should leave to grow in peace over in the corner, Bruce. It gains momentum when less people know what is happening to you.”

“I should—” he glared at the wall, at her framed Georgia O’Keefe prints and Dr. Suess quotes, “I should be able to control this. I should have gotten better at handling this by now.”

“Depression is a disease Bruce and in your case, it is chronic. This will be a lifelong condition that you face and you need to start treating it like you would any other medical condition. Would you berate someone with Diabetes needing insulin or for having to watch their diet and exercise?”

Bruce frowned, “I hardly think that’s a fair comparison.”

“Why not? Depression is a medical, chemical, problem. It has nothing to do with you simply trying harder and everything to do with your body being deficient in making the right brain chemicals. It is a _medical_ life-long condition. So is Diabetes.”

“Fine.”

“So, would you berate them?”

He stared at Grace for long minutes, trying to make his mind connect the dots she was trying to show him. It made sense, to his literal and logical mind. His emotional one was sneering in the corner.

“No. I wouldn’t berate them.”

“Of course not. Let’s talk about the next steps for you. Did you bring a notebook to write this down? I don’t want you to forget later on.”

“Yes,” he rummaged in the briefcase Alfred had the foresight to manhandle him into bringing. Inside, he found a freshly minted leather-bound notepad and a ball-point pen that looked like it had come straight off his desk at WE.

“Ready?”

He nodded.

“Step one. I want you to go outside every day.”

A week went by.

Bruce went outside every day. He walked the perimeter of the property outside the manor and would amble down the rocky shoals where the Gotham harbor lapped viciously at the sandy beds. He picked his way over briny boulders and stared for endless minutes at the coastline until his eyes burned and his throat felt too tight to swallow.

And when he was sure no one was around, that he wouldn’t be witnessed, he screamed.

Bruce would stand on the rocky outcropping furthest from the manor and he’d scream. He’d scream and scream and scream until his throat ached and his hands were trembling, and he was breathless.

For fifteen years he’d been coming to that spot to scream. Fifteen years, he’d been screaming into the wind, at the ocean and the jetting gulls and the mindless fish. It was one of the most freeing and bizarre exercises that Grace insisted he perform. And he’d forgotten how good it could feel. Somewhere over the last twenty-two months, he’d stopped doing it. He’d forgotten.

How, he couldn’t understand. Because it felt amazing to scream. It felt like purging slithers of darkness from his soul that no amount of talk therapy or pills or walks could garner.

He’d missed it.

This day, he waited till sunset to go for his walk. He told Alfred not to wait on dinner and to serve everyone without him. Then Bruce walked his usual path through the gardens and then out to the shoals. He slipped down the rocks with anticipation quickening his pulse and sweaty palms making him nervously glance backwards to ensure he was really alone.

When he got to his favorite spot and stood on the tip of the rocky perch, Bruce was near giddy with the prospect of cutting lose. His eyes slipped closed as he leaned into the wind and sucked in mouthfuls of salty air. He could taste the brine when he tipped back his head and stared blankly into the purpling sky. Tangerine fingers were cutting across the dome and flickers of stars were valiantly trying to make their way past the smog from the Gotham City.

It was—beautiful. And Bruce could recognize that. He could see it, like he hadn’t in too long. So, he waited and savored it. He let himself soak in all the things of this place and the things he was supposed to be remembering.

Bruce waited till the sun was only an orange thumbnail on the horizon before screaming. This time he screamed till his throat felt raw and bleeding. He screamed till tears crowded out the noise and turned into broken sobs and he gave into them, because he couldn’t breathe if he didn’t. He sat on the rocks and wept till the tears ran dry and he just felt empty. A hollowed-out log bumping in the surf.

Then he curled into himself and counted the pebbles that pillowed his head. He dallied in the quiet he’d created until he knew Alfred or one of the boys would come looking for him, then Bruce forced his numb legs to take him back to the manor.

It didn’t feel as hard to smile when Alfred asked how his walk was.

It didn’t feel as hard to hug Damian before bed and to linger over homework or the daily drabbles that made up the life of a ten-year-old.

It didn’t feel as hard to put on the cowl either.


	2. Chapter 2

The third week, Grace asked Bruce to start journaling. She called it junk-journaling.

He’d done it before. So, the concept wasn’t something that was altogether new. Still, he had trouble implementing it during his day. He started getting up a half-hour earlier than he would normally and ambling down to the kitchen to sit in the breakfast nook to write. He’d drink his coffee, stare at the blank pages and feel the pressure in his chest grow until finally he came up with something to put down.

He only wrote a sentence the first day. Simply, ‘I’m tired and I don’t feel like doing this.’

The second day, he wrote two sentences. ‘I’m tired. It’s too early to be forming coherent thoughts but there is no other time to be doing this.’

By the third, he rapidly graduated to griping in a full paragraph. He wrote about how he was cold and wished he’d remembered to put on a sweatshirt and how he liked Arabica beans better than Guatemalan. It felt stupid, superfluous and useless. But he kept doing it. After four days, Bruce actually started to write down some of the dark thoughts that plagued him. He wrote down how it felt like he’d been stained with ink and he couldn’t ever make himself clean again, how it was staining his skin black. He wrote about his mother and father and his best memories. His worst memories followed soon after.

Bruce kept the journal by his bed. When he woke from a nightmare, he wrote it down and it helped to put it out of his mind long enough to fall back asleep. Then he started bringing the journal everywhere. He wrote in it when his mind grew frazzled and felt bottled up with fatigue during his hours at WE. He stopped on rooftops between surveillance or chases to jot down his thoughts about a case or even the slant of the moon and how it made him feel homesick. He wrote everything down. And nothing.

It became the epitome of a junk journal. And Grace merely smiled and told him that was exactly what it supposed to be for.

Bruce’s days slurred together. One day to the next, to the next, often feeling like he was only going through the motions. He checked off the boxes and did what he was told. He showered, shaved, and took the allotted pills. He ate what Alfred put in front of him, though everything was tasteless and he silently escaped each night to scream like a banshee at the nothingness that surrounded him.

But he was moving. He was moving, incrementally, fractionally, forward. He could feel it. It just didn’t feel fast enough. It felt excruciatingly slow. Frustratingly, like he was running in place and only surviving. To some degree, that was true. He was doing what Grace told him to do, because it was about surviving.

A month into scheduled therapy and following the rules, Bruce woke up and couldn’t get out of bed.

His body felt like lead had been sewn into the flesh and he weighed a thousand pounds. Every time he thought of stepping out of the warmth of his covers he was assaulted by either the frightening desire to weep or the equally frightening compulsion to trip headlong into a panic attack. Getting out of bed meant facing everyone and everything. It meant work.

And he was tired. He was so, so tired.

So, he closed his eyes, tugged the covers over his head and drifted in and out of sleep. 

It had been almost a year since he’d had a dream about Uncle Phillip. But the night before, he’d been nothing but plagued with them. Every time he’d closed his eyes, the man had been waiting for him.

It had left Bruce so defeated, he didn’t want to move. So bitterly empty, he only seemed capable of staring into space and mumbling a few apologies when Damian asked if he was sick.

He lied. ‘Yes,’ he’d whispered, ‘I’m sick, have a good day at school.’

But he wasn’t. Was he? Not really. Bruce knew that Grace would disagree. She’d tell him that this was like having a relapse. Like having a bad day with a chronic illness and should be treated as such. Leeway should be given and latitude should be offered. Instead, he felt like a liar.

He curled beneath his comforters and buried his head in the heat of them, tracing patterns into the dark folds of his blankets with mindless movements. He lost himself for hours and had no interest in being found.

When he felt the comforters shift and someone climb inside the bed with him, Bruce didn’t have to look to know who it would be. He didn’t have to confirm, to know that Dick had slipped beside him and snugged himself around Bruce like a giant weighted blanket. Of course, Alfred would have called him, like he always did.

And Dick would come. Like he always did.

The comforters resettled over them, from head to toe, the murky darkness comfortingly bathing him again. Bruce was grateful that Dick didn’t try to pull him out yet. He still needed to hide. He didn’t care that sitting with his head under the covers didn’t actually make the problems on the outside go away. It was a tonic he needed to pretend _would_ work, at least for now.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce murmured, feeling his nose sting as the tears he’d not cried yet bubbled up to the surface.

“Don’t be sorry, B.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“Stop,” the word was a whisper, but it commanded his silence just the same. It made the dark warmth they were hiding in feel safer. He wasn’t allowed to feel badly for falling apart when Dick was here. Dick would make sure of that. He always did. “Why didn’t you tell me it was bad again?”

Bruce sniffed, giving into the urge to grab one of Dick’s hands that had wound around his middle. “It’s my problem.”

And yet, there he was, clinging to his son like a frightened child.

“B, you’re sick. That’s not something you should be ashamed of. And you shouldn’t be alone. We’ve talked about this.”

Bruce said nothing to that. What could he say that he’d not already said before? Dick was almost thirty years old. He shouldn’t be spooning his adoptive father because he was too weak to get out of his bed and face the demons. He shouldn’t be here at all. Doing any of this. He never should have. But he and Dick had never had the most traditional of father-son relationships. Maybe because Bruce was only sixteen years his senior. Or maybe because Dick was light and gold wherever Bruce was darkness and pain. Dick’s natural inclination had always been to comfort and to fix, no matter how much Bruce had done his best to ward him off.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Showered?”

Bruce closed his eyes, sighing out a long breath, “No.”

“I know you haven’t brushed your teeth, because I can smell your breath from here.”

Despite himself, Bruce laughed, and it broke the edges of the darkness away from himself. He could feel Dick grinning behind him and it settled like a heated stone in his middle, radiating warmth and peace. Softening the slippery oil of the nightmares and the panic.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I’ll always come.”

Bruce believed that.

He showered. He brushed his teeth. Dick walked him down to the kitchen and watched him eat something while he took his medication. When Dick silently offered him a Xanax, Bruce didn’t fight it. He knew it would make him sleepy. But his hands were shaking and his pulse was a frightened little hum in his ears and neck, making it almost impossible to think. He hated taking them. But when he was like this, there really wasn’t a way around it.

They both knew it. So, he took the meds. And then he napped with his feet in Dick’s lap while they watched Spongebob and the Fairly Odd Parents. When suppertime rolled around, Damian exploded into the study like a sparkling firecracker and flung himself at Dick with all the abandon he rarely showed. It made Bruce smile.

And he almost felt like himself again when they ate supper at the dining room table and Alfred joined them. He didn’t talk, and he wasn’t expected to. But everyone talked enough for him. He laughed at Damian’s stories of school and listened intently when Dick told his youngest he couldn’t patrol no matter how much he wanted to, because it was a school night.

When Dick helped him back up to bed and quietly slipped behind him, Bruce didn’t stop him. He said nothing to dissuade the warmth of having a pair of arms hold him tightly and nothing still when Dick said a Romani prayer in his ear before he drifted off to sleep.

Bruce didn’t dream of Uncle Philip again.

When he woke up to the sound of his alarm, he muscled his way out of bed, took the journal down the stairs with him and quietly hummed a thank you when Alfred offered him a cup of coffee then joined him in the breakfast nook.

He wrote about Dick. And how thankful he was for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of cutting. It could be triggering. 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update anything really. Unsurprisingly, I've been in a funk. I had an anniversary for a lost loved one that was a bugger to get through and it left me a little hollow. Thanks for your patience.

“How is the journaling going?”

“I’ve kept up with it.”

“That’s good,” Grace offered, sipping lightly on her coffee, “Tell me about your thought-life. Has it been improving?”

Bruce considered the slight, if not frustratingly small improvements, then nodded. “Yes. It’s getting better.”

“But not fast enough.”

He smirked, “No.”

Grace reciprocated with a smile, “How are the boys? How’s Damian progressing in school?”

“Well. He’s not had any more run-ins with his peers and I’ve not been called by his principle.”

“Excellent. I’m sure you’re proud of him.”

There was warmth that blossomed under Bruce’s breastbone at the notion and he smiled, despite the twinges of pain that accompanied the warmth. “Yes. I’m very proud.”

“Have you been contacted recently by Talia, since the last time we talked about her?”

“No.”

Bruce never wanted to talk about her. But she was always there on the periphery of his thoughts, like a whispering taunt. Uncle Philip was usually sitting right next to her. Bruce wished he couldn’t recall the man’s face so well, down to the mole he had on his right cheek. But he could.

“How have you been liking the outside time? Has it improved your mood any?”

“It has.”

She smiled, small and delicate above her coffee mug, “And the screaming?”

Bruce smiled back, but it lacked her warmth. He was afraid it looked as hollow and empty as he felt. “I’m still doing it.”

“Excellent. That’s all I can ask. Just keep going. Keep doing what I’m saying. It will pay off.”

“Yes,” Bruce nodded, “Eventually.”

He believed that. Somewhere beneath the layers of bitterness and scar tissue. He believed it.

He did.

Grace gave him new instructions to find a way to take a break from his work at WE and any other ‘extracurriculars’ he might be involved in. They never spoke of Batman or Bruce’s link to it. But Bruce suspected she knew. After fifteen years of seeing him as her patient and prying into his most private thoughts and fears, how could she not? He’d shown up to therapy sessions on more than one occasion sporting black eyes or fat lips.

Bruce didn’t mind. Grace was a safe person. She’d proven that much to him over the years.

She told him he needed a vacation of sorts for his mind to rest. A minimum of two days, or even better, a week. She’d not specified anything more. Only that he not do any work of any kind and that he focus on centering himself during his time. He needed to write down ten things he hated about himself and then by the end of the vacation alter their descriptions to find what was positive. Or rather, to peel back the lies and see the truth. She called it, a truth-cation.

Bruce had been listening to and believing in lies for a very, very long time. Or so, Grace told him. It would take more than writing them down and thinking positively to rewire his thinking. Even so, she told him this would be a step in the right direction. Grace frequently asked things of Bruce that felt impossibly frivolous or downright embarrassing.

But they always helped. In the end.

A week after her suggestion, Bruce lay in the dark, wide-awake and restless, his mind a buzzing nest of thoughts. None of them were particularly pleasant. None of them would have been safe to say in front of company.

But he couldn’t control them.

His stomach cramped in on itself as he shifted beneath the sheets, trying to find a comfortable spot, trying desperately to shut his mind off. But it kept running and running and spewing the sorts of things Grace would tell him were those lies he believed.

She’d be right. About believing them. The lies bit, he had a harder time reconciling with. Bruce wasn’t so sure they were lies.

_Control freak. Pessimistic asshole._

_Weak._

_Pathetic._

_Alone. Alone. Alone._

_Worthless._

_Waste of space._

The whispers were nothing new. They didn’t have a voice or a personality. But they chanted in inky tongues in his mind and made him itchy. They made his hands shake and his heart race so fast and hard it hurt inside his chest. He could do it just this once. He could do it somewhere no one would notice and it would bring relief. The voices would go quiet for just a moment and it would be silent and he could _breathe_ again if he did it.

He could just slip into the bathroom, go get his straight razor and—

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe through three cycles of practiced inhales and exhales. It soothed the taut edges in his stomach but did nothing to quell the desire. He wanted to cut.

No, he needed it.

But he’d not cut in almost a decade. He’d not put blade to skin in so long, the scars from those years were just faint silvery lines on the insides of his biceps, hips, and ribs. Still, the urges never left. The feeling of control and the peace it had given him, felt so tangibly close, he found himself sweating like a druggie, desperate for his fix.

Would it never get better? Would he always slide back to this baser self, who was so desperate to feel better, he would defile himself over and over?

No one ever told you that once you started something like cutting it would be as addictive as heroin. Worse, it would make you feel whole for fleeting minutes. The red on white would be like a siren in your worst moments and you would never, never forget the control and power it gave you. The feeling of being alive for just a flash. And it would be worth it. It would be worth the condemnation and the looks because in that moment where it was just you and the blade, you felt better.

Even if it was just smoke in the wind. You felt better.

But no one told you that. No one said how cutting would fuck you up worse. How it would feed into the pit and make it even deeper and slippery to get out of.

No.

Because they didn’t know. They didn’t understand. It frightened people. So, no one talked about it. Just like they ignored all the other ugly little things that went along with it. Like the depression and the suicidal ideations and the crippling anxiety.

God, Bruce hated himself most when he was like this. He hated who he was, what he was, how he was. There was no way for him to twist the words or the feelings into positive emotions like Grace wanted. It was too black. It was too dark.

The pit was too deep, and he was drowning, suffocating in his own filth. Hating himself for it. 

It took too much willpower to roll over and put his back to the bathroom. It took too much willpower to just breathe, let alone force those ugly thoughts out of his head. They taunted him late into the night, till the crest of sunlight curling through the window frames warmed his back and finally lulled him into a fitful sleep.

Small victory. Too small.

Bruce dreamed of cutting too.

Bruce mentioned the truth-cation over supper to Alfred and Alfred of course, heartily agreed. Whatever Grace suggested, was ‘absolutely necessary’ and he should ask Clark to join him. He shouldn’t go alone.

Bruce didn’t think he needed the company, rather he didn’t want it.

That changed nothing.

Clark agreed to come anyways when Alfred asked. They set a date on the calendar to take a three-day weekend on a private island he hadn’t set foot in for almost two years. The house would still be carefully manicured and taken care of, but no one had stayed in it for quite some time. It would need supplies brought in.

There were details to attend to and things to be arranged. Bruce saw to all of it with quiet dread. 

When they arrived on a Friday afternoon with the blossom of orange twilight slanting over the house and the calm shush of waves lapping at the beach, Bruce felt like he needed to take a Xanax and just go to bed.

Leaving the office for a couple of days was nothing big. Leaving Gotham for three days? It always felt like being separated from an errant albeit darling child. Like having the worst case of separation anxiety known to man. He didn’t go on vacations for a reason. He didn’t leave himself without a way of communicating with Dick or Jason. Or Tim or Damian. Hell, even Alfred. He liked to have them at the ready and he liked to be kept informed about what was going on, where, when, and how.

He wasn’t just Bruce Wayne. He was Batman.

Batman needed to be kept in the loop at all times. 

_Control freak._

Yes, he was that. He didn’t have the energy to care or do differently. Not tonight anyways.

“Want a drink?” Clark murmured at his side, wordlessly taking Bruce’s duffel bag as he moved to deposit them in the bedrooms.

“Yes.”

Clark fixed them both a glass of bourbon then toted Bruce out onto the deck where he lit a tidy fire in the clay chiminea and then propped his feet up on the rail. The air was filled with the scent of crisped wood and hibiscus. The bourbon was sweet and burned pleasantly in his stomach. It would probably be a bad idea to mix the Xanax with the alcohol but Bruce was considering it. He was considering it strongly.

“How bad is it this time?”

Bruce didn’t look at Clark. He didn’t pretend to not know what Clark was talking about either. That would be pointless. He’d been friends with Clark for a long time. No one knew him better. No one understood as well as Clark how dangerous things could be.

“Bad.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bruce snorted, “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s nothing new. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright,” Clark sighed, “What would you like to talk about? It’s a nice night and it’ll take a little bit for that bourbon to slow you down some.”

Bruce hummed in response but didn’t come up with anything better to talk about. In the end, Clark filled in all the spaces, like he usually did with chatter about work at the Planet. A little about Lois and his parents. Some about JLA business, but mostly it was innocuous and mundane bits of information. Bruce listened to it anyways and took it all in as he drank.

When he reached the bottom of his glass, Clark refilled it.

After his third glass, Bruce was flushed and warm. So warm. He felt much, much better and was drowsing lazily in the Adirondack chair. His limbs felt so wonderfully heavy, he could sleep. In fact, the wood wasn’t so bad. He could sleep and have first view of the sunrise come morning.

It would probably look spectacular.

“Come on B. Let’s get you to bed.”

Bruce smiled, “Yeah. Goodnight.”

“Not in the chair. Bed,” Clark chuckled when Bruce didn’t help to keep himself upright, whatsoever and completely let Clark drag him down the hall. When they reached the bed and Clark deposited Bruce a little hard onto the mattress, Bruce just startling cackling.

“At least you’ve always been a silly drunk.”

“I’m not sssillly.”

Clark smirked, tugging off Bruce’s loafers and then his chinos. “OK. Agree to disagree. You want pajama pants?”

“No.”

“It is a little warm. Should I kick on the air condition?”

Bruce shrugged, “I dunno. I dun care.”

“Hmmm.”

Clark rearranged Bruce’s noodle-limp body into the middle of the bed then tucked him in like he was two. It made Bruce cackle more. Well, until he started to cry anyway. Then the cackle became more like sobbing and Clark’s tucking became more like hugging.

They stayed close for long minutes. Clark had always been kind through the years, understanding even, about the depression and the anxiety and the things Bruce told no one else. The things he kept hidden because of the immense shame and guilt he carried. But he was especially kind now.

Maybe it was because Clark sensed how dark it had gotten for Bruce. Maybe because he knew Bruce had thought of killing himself for the last forty-eight days straight and had a few plans written up he kept hidden and under lock and key in the cave. Maybe it was because Bruce was shaking and leaving snot and tears on Clark’s plaid and Bruce never, never liked to cry on anyone. Ever.

It was probably a lot of things.

When Bruce cried himself dry, Clark didn’t even bother asking permission to stay. It wasn’t the first time they’d crammed themselves onto the same bed. But it was the first time Bruce fell asleep with his ear pressed to Clark’s steady heart and murmured the words, thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce woke sweltering hot and had to fight his way out of too many comforters and way too heavy of an arm wrapped around his middle. Clark was like an oven, despite the air conditioning pumping through the beach house, and he’d kept the both of them piping hot all night. Bruce scowled down at his friend, who rolled to take up Bruce’s now vacant side of the bed too then shuffled in the direction of the kitchen.

He needed coffee. Stat.

On his way there, Bruce grabbed the junk journal from his suitcase and a pen. It was more habitual than actual thought to do so. 

He drank his coffee out off the back deck, overlooking the gentle swells of Caribbean waters and watched the sun lazily rise. Bruce’s inner monologue felt mild and calm. A little weary, but otherwise softened by his surroundings. Then he journaled about getting drunk for the first time in ten years with his best friend. How he’d cried like a baby and had spent the night being swaddled and cuddled to death. He wrote how it reminded him he had good things to live for. People who cared about his comings and his goings. Who would be upset if he ever decided to just—stop.

He thought about what Grace asked him to do, about the ten things he was supposed to write down that he hated about himself. How he was supposed to be able to turn them around into positives, rather than negatives by the end of this three-day trip.

He wrote down one thing.

_I hate how controlling I am._

There wasn’t a positive to that. And if there was, he needed time to think about it.

Bruce sat outside till the sun burned off the morning fog and the air got sticky with humidity. He sat till he felt saturated with the scent of hibiscus and antsy to move. To leave. Then he went back inside and found Clark cooking breakfast happily whistling at the stove. The whistling grated, but the food smelled good, so he didn’t chastise. He merely moved to the bar, watched Clark cook, and had a second cup of coffee. Clark’s presence was a steady companion to the emptiness of his thoughts. Bruce was quietly glad he’d listened to Alfred and not come alone. 

It was noiseless on the island. Almost stiflingly so.

No outside intrusions, no possibilities of work encroaching or emergencies calling or the boys needing him. The island could be an entirely different dimension for all its isolation and privacy. 

And maybe that was what Bruce needed. A thought-cation, like Grace said. A place where time didn’t exist and only instincts reigned.

Bruce ate more than half of his breakfast and after, told Clark he was going to head out for a walk. Alone. Clark didn’t balk or try to argue. He merely smiled, then pulled out his laptop to work on his book. It was his response that was exactly why he was the perfect companion to have on the island.

Bruce ambled along the beach in shorts and a loose t-shirt. He’d worn Keds but halfway through, he gave up and simply carried them. The sand was hot on the bottoms of his feet. Nearly punishing. He welcomed the silty sting of it on his skin. By the time he finally rested, Bruce had traversed the whole of the little island and had backtracked to a smooth patch of beach that had thousands of broken pieces of shells. Little pink and white slivers of once perfect things, left to ruin. A graveyard of crustacean creatures.

He sat in the broken pieces, played with them, counted them, let his mind wander and fiddle with the ten things he was supposed to be coming up with. Of course, Bruce had brought the little junk journal with him and he pulled it out with a sigh to stare blankly at the pages.

He added two more items to the list.

_I hate how loud my mind is._

_I hate my scars—both physical and mental._

Frowning, Bruce smoothed his calloused fingers over the indents of his writing and closed his eyes just to listen to the soft hum of water lapping at the beach.

It was the sound of Clark crunching over those broken shells that finally surprised him out of his stupor. He’d been somewhere between sleep and awake, drowsing like a drunkard, chin bobbing down to his chest. Clark didn’t say anything until he sat heavily beside Bruce, offered him a bottle of water that still felt cold. Bruce took it greedily and started gulping it down.

“You’re working on a pretty good sunburn.”

“Am I?” Bruce smirked, finally dropping the bottle, “Alfred will give me hell for it.”

“Of course, he will. Hungry?”

“No.”

“It’s almost two. We ate hours ago.”

He shrugged, “I skip meals occasionally. It’s not a big deal.”

“Yes, well, I’m under strict orders to prevent that sort of behavior from happening over the next three days.”

“Do you always do what you’re told, Clark?”

Clark tipped his head to the side, considering, “No. Not always. But when it comes to this, I do. It’s too important.”

Bruce scoffed a little but kept quiet when Clark hauled him up and they walked back to the house. 

They ate grilled cheese and played a rousing game of checkers. Bruce fell asleep on the sofa for close to an hour while Clark sketched in the recliner, his glasses shoved down to the end of his nose. Bruce didn’t know why the man wore them when he didn’t even need them. Especially on the island. It was just the two of them. But Bruce supposed habit made it feel more comfortable to simply keep them on.

After supper, something Bruce struggled immensely to eat, Clark suggested they star gaze and they ended the day out on the deck beneath a wash of milky stars and onyx drapery. The palms sounded like whispers in the barely cooler air and it hummed pleasantly on Bruce’s slightly tender skin. He had gotten a bit of a sunburn. But he didn’t regret it. Not really.

The burn reminded him he was alive. It—much like any other form of physical pain—kept Bruce more lucid and less in his head. It did what cutting usually offered him. It gave a little wedge, a tiny flicker of peace.

“How’s that list coming along?”

Bruce stiffened in his chair, contemplated not responding for a handful of seconds then sighed, “It’s slow.”

“Coming up with the things you hate or changing them to positives?”

“Did you talk to Grace?” 

“No. Alfred.”

“Who talked to Grace.”

Clark’s expression was impossible to read in the inky dark. “Yes. Does that bother you?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce answered honestly. There was something very naked and uncomfortable about knowing his therapist sometimes talked to Alfred. Granted, he’d said they could. He’d not ever revoked Alfred’s rights to or Grace’s permission to speak about him. Of course, certain things, he asked Grace never to discuss with Alfred. She respected that. But about any treatment plans or goals, he’d given her permission a long time ago to share with Alfred.

Still, it felt—strange, knowing that Alfred and now Clark, knew what Grace had asked of him. He felt accountable, which Bruce imagined Grace would say was a good thing. 

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Grace would disagree.”

Clark sighed, “She’s never steered you wrong before.”

“No. She hasn’t.”

They lapsed into silence for long minutes. Drifted with the gentle breeze and the water. Let the salty air comb their hair and press kisses into their skin.

“How many do you have?”

Bruce inhaled softly, closed his eyes. “Three.”

“Only seven more then.”

Bruce snorted, “It’s not hard to come up with the things I hate. It’s going to be hard to change them. To see what good can be brought out of them.”

“I could help you.”

“I don’t know if I want you seeing some of my ugliest thoughts on paper.”

Clark reached blindly for Bruce’s hand, found it fisted on the armrest and grabbed on. “It wouldn’t change how I feel. You’re still my best friend. I wouldn’t run away.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a wreck Clark. I’ve always been. I will always be. I’ve reached a low point, sure, and in a few months, I’ll have managed to claw my way back up to a level that’s more efficient and comfortable. But it never goes away. Not ever. It’ll always be there, waiting for any weak point in the armor to bring me back here.”

“The depression…” Clark mused, voice sounding distant.

“And the anxiety. They never go away. It’s this insidious thing that I can’t get rid of. It’s literally—it’s—”

“Apart of your DNA.”

Bruce blinked, frowned, “Yes. I suppose that’s true.”

“You have no control over that Bruce. It’s not your fault. Genetics handed you a random card that means you make far less serotonin than the average person. Circumstances from your childhood made that worse. Added to it. You’re doing the best you can to mitigate the fallout of that.”

“Am I?” Bruce suddenly felt tired, absurdly so. He wondered if closing his eyes would help. If sleeping would make the ache beneath his breastbone disappear for a few hours, long enough to get relief. Granted, he’d felt a little better, wandering the beaches, disappearing in his head. But it never lasted. The ugliness always returned to swamp him. Suffocate him. Drag him back, kicking and screaming into the pit.

“You are,” Clark’s hand was a firm reminder of not being alone. A steady mooring point Bruce had clung to in the past and he did so now, turning his hand over so his palm was up. Clark easily accepted the invitation and he wove their fingers together, gripping Bruce’s hand hard.

They didn’t talk about the list of things he was supposed to be writing again. They actually didn’t talk at all. Bruce cast Clark a sidelong look when Clark followed him into the bedroom and climbed into the bed they’d shared the previous night without saying a word. But Bruce didn’t stop him. He was grateful for the lack of conversation. For the assumption that Bruce would want to share again.

He was even more grateful for that when Clark held up the covers in invitation, waited for Bruce to shimmy into the bed, then proceeded to suffocate him with all that alien warmth. Bruce fell asleep almost immediately. It had been far too long since he’d been able to accomplish that.

Bruce woke screaming.

He kicked out at the heaviness all around him, blurry with clinging madness from the dream, clawing at the warmth of skin and male and warmth. Terror lodged in his throat so heavily that he couldn’t manage words.

Only screams.

It took three minutes and forty-five seconds for Bruce to calm enough to realize that the man who was in the bed with him, was not in fact Uncle Philip. Another two minutes to stop the panicked hyperventilating and to utter a few mumbled apologies to Clark.

Another six minutes before he could return to the bed.

He had to change clothes. He was soaked with sweat and shaking. Clark said nothing about any of it. He offered no meaningless phrases or promises. Only quiet assurance and steady hands. He helped Bruce dress in clean pajamas. Got him a glass of water. Offered to sleep in the other bedroom.

Bruce held on to Clark’s hand with a death grip and shook his head no. He didn’t want to be alone. Now, more than ever.

The dream still clung to him. Still prowled in his mind, with teeth and shiny poisoned claws. It reminded him of why he was a wreck. Why he hated himself. Why he wanted to be done with it all.

He didn’t want to be alone.

They settled back into the bed, on clean sheets, with Clark keeping a few inches of space between them and Bruce was grateful. He was grateful that Clark understood he wanted someone with him, but not touching him. He was grateful when Clark rolled to his side, watched him with dark steady eyes and then started humming a song that sounded an awful lot like a children’s lullaby. It should have been silly that Bruce immediately relaxed into the sheets, crisp and cool on his feverish cheek. But it wasn’t. It was—nice. It was a quiet dreamy snapshot in a reality of noisy frightening mess.

Bruce drifted off when Clark got to the bridge of the song and when dawn broke over the island, Bruce had moved back to Clark’s side and burrowed in.

_I hate how controlling I am._

_I hate how loud my mind is._

_I hate my scars—both physical and mental._

_I hate my mood swings._

_I hate that pain is the only way I really feel anything._

_I hate that I get scared still._

_I hate my that I’m bad at communicating._

_I hate how I look._

_I hate that I push everyone away—when all I really want is to not be alone._

_I hate how weak I am._

_Control gives me a feeling of safety and security. I need to feel safe._

_My mind is loud, but it is mine and it is unique. There are no minds just like it._

_My scars tell the story of who I am and everything I’ve survived to get this far._

_Moods swings are simply emotions on speed. Being emotional is supposed to be good._

_Feeling through pain isn’t always a bad thing, when done safely._

_Everyone is scared. Even Superman. It is nothing to be ashamed of._

_Communication is a lifelong skill. No one is good at it. Not really._

_I am an attractive man and my looks have gotten me places. Most of them good._

_Pushing away is a safety mechanism, one that can be used sparingly._

_No one is strong absolutely. My weaknesses make me human._

Bruce ran a finger down the list of the things he hated and then down the parallel list and frowned. He didn’t particularly like how it turned out, but he’d completed the task. He’d even finished three entire days away from Gotham with no ability to contact home whatsoever. His time with Clark had been—rejuvenating—in ways Bruce had not expected.

He felt a little lighter. Felt a little stronger.

All good things.

Seeing Grace on the following Monday, with his junk journal in hand, Bruce sat on the familiar leather sofa he usually took, studied her assortment of fish in her mediocre aquarium that never seemed to change, no matter the years, and offered her a tentative smile.

Grace smiled warmly back at him, “You have a tan.”

“I went somewhere sunny.”

“That’s wonderful. Tell me about it.”

Bruce did. He told her about the privacy on the island. About how he ate better than he usually did because of Clark’s insistence that he do so. He skirted the nightmares and offered her his junk journal to look at the lists he’d completed instead.

“Do you believe what you wrote? The positives?”

“Not really.”

“But did it help to force your mind to twist the darkness and see how it could be seen differently?”

Bruce hesitated, thought of the hours he’d spent agonizing over how to make the ten things he’d written into good things and shrugged. “Yes. I suppose it did help. A little.”

“Nothing is fixed overnight. Your neural pathways are comfortable with what they’re doing. It will take time to undo what it likes to do. I want you to read these positives every day. Do it before you walk outside and do the screaming. Or right before bed. Affirm yourself, even when you don’t believe it. See what it does for you or if it becomes easier to believe any of it.”

She paused, scribbled a few things down in her own notebook then handed him back his junk journal. He felt a little relieved to be able to close it and put it away. Like being able to put on another layer of clothing against a chill.

“How have you been sleeping?”

Bruce glanced up, “As well as can be expected.”

“Meaning, not well. Are you having nightmares?”

Bruce nodded stiffly, found a place on the carpet to study.

“Do you remember any of them?”

“The dreams?”

Grace smiled patiently at him, “Yes. I will never force you discuss things you don’t want to Bruce. But we’ve talked about this before. Whatever you say in my office is confidential. I never discuss details with anyone, even Alfred. He is aware of your treatment plan and occasionally the assignments I give you. But nothing else.”

“I know.”

“You are safe to say whatever you wish. Or nothing at all. But you must remember that you came to me for help. You will only get as much help as you want.”

Bruce picked at his cuticles, thought of the island and the dreams. He’d had one every night. Had kept on having them after returning and he had no idea why. It made no sense. Bruce couldn’t think of an outside stimulus that could have caused it. Not unless he counted Clark’s presence, but that made even less sense. Every time he’d calmed down and realized Clark was near, he’d wanted Clark there. He’d wanted Clark to remain nearby because the man’s presence meant safety.

“I’ve been having nightmares.”

“New or old?”

“Some of both.”

“Memory based?”

Bruce nodded, “Yes.”

Grace pursed her lips, tapped her pen, “About Uncle Philip or Talia?”

It was sad that there was more than one tormentor in his sleep. “Uncle Philip.”

Bruce forced himself to say that the dreams were of when he was small and helpless. He wasn’t the Batman in those dreams. No, never. He was always reduced to childhood, just after his parents were murdered, when he was placed with his Uncle as the courts decided which house he should go to. Alfred had had to fight the system to have him removed and brought back home. No one understood why the Wayne family could ever possibly want their only heir raised by a butler, someone who wasn’t even blood, rather than Philip. Philip was a kind man, wasn’t he? He had soft brown eyes and a wide white smile. He was friendly to everyone he met. He and his wife had no children and were nearly as wealthy as Thomas Wayne had been. It made perfect sense for Bruce to grow up in a home similar to his own.

Bruce had stayed with Uncle Philip for six months, two weeks, and two days. The abuse began after only eleven days.

On the island, Bruce had dreamt of Philip coming into his bedroom at night, whispering that he would help Bruce sleep. It always started like that. With soft whispers and careful looks. With promises of protection. Then it always graduated to compliments. How beautiful Bruce was. How much like his mother he looked. How pretty his eyes were and his unblemished skin.

“Why do you think these dreams are happening now, Bruce?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were you alone on the island?”

“No,” Bruce shifted in his seat, “I brought a friend. A close friend.”

“Man or woman?”

“Does it matter?”

Grace nodded, “It does. In your case especially. Your tormentor was male.”

“I brought Clark.”

“I see,” Grace tapped her pen on her notepad, looked thoughtful as her brows drew together, “He’s a safe person to you. But when you are asleep, your body may not always know that. It might have been a trigger.”

Bruce frowned, “It never has before. And when I woke up, I wanted him near me. He helped me.”

“I’m sure he did. Clark is a good friend and someone you trust. But when we are at our darkest, it weakens us physically, mentally, and emotionally. This is where the barrier between reality and memories blurs. When we sleep, we are especially weak.”

Bruce swallowed, fisted his hands, willed himself to feel calm and collected. He felt anything but. Speaking about any of this made his ears buzz and his stomach roil. He felt sick. “I can’t protect myself when I sleep.”

“No. But as you gain strength again, your dreams will calm. Until then, I’d like you to drink a glass of valerian root tea before sleep. Try your meditative breathing just before you get into bed. Use nightlights, leave the door unlocked. Whatever will put your body in as much a state of rest _before_ you go to sleep,” Grace inhaled softly, “Do you want me to speak with Alfred about any of this?”

“I—” Bruce’s first instinct was to keep it to himself. He hated that anyone knew about what had happened at all. Even knowing Grace knew was difficult. “I don’t know.”

“Alfred is aware of what happened when you were a boy, yes?”

Bruce nodded. He’d left a grieved, heartbroken boy and returned and a catatonic, bed-wetting, nightmare. Alfred had known straight away that something had gone dreadfully wrong. Bruce didn’t think the man had ever really forgiven himself.

“It might be helpful to let him know of the dreams. Perhaps he could sleep nearby in case you’ve need of him. It might also put you at ease and reduce the nightmares.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Will you still be able to see me Friday then, eight o’ clock?”

Bruce nodded.

Grace stood, offered him a firm hand then drew him into a half-hug that always managed to surprise him. She was willowy and thin, fragile looking but strong. Very strong.

“You are making progress. Little by little. I can see it in your eyes each week you come.”

Bruce felt his cheekbones prickle at the compliment, felt the dark frothing sadness in his middle shift away from the warmth that wanted to be there instead. He could believe Grace, because she never lied to him. He could believe her because he was starting to see it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255  
> Self-Harm Text Hotline, text CONNECT to 741741


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've upped the rating on this fic to Mature--mostly because so much of what is said in this fic is really deep and raw. Also, I've used a little bit of language. So that's going to up it too. 
> 
> Oh, and as I was writing, it's sort of taken on a life of its own. So, Clark and Bruce might eventually become romantically involved? I don't know. I'm following their lead.

Bruce dreamt of Uncle Philip for a few more days in the manor. He didn’t speak of the nightmares to Alfred, nor did he call Clark. He suffered through them silently. It wasn’t just his privacy he was protecting, but his pride. Sharing what haunted him not only made it more real but threatened to alter the way those closest to Bruce looked at him.

He had no interest in pity. No matter who it came from.

And when the dreams finally stopped, he was too relieved to question it. He was only too happy to try and move on from the brief setback.

Bruce continued with Grace’s treatment plan. He still went out and screamed over the cliffs. He still wrote in the journal and read the positives list over and over. And maybe it was all the sun Gotham was getting or that the treatment really was working, but Bruce felt—better. His mind strayed less and less to what it could do to escape. He spent more time content and at peace than he had in a long, long while.

A success. All in all. 

Or so he told himself.

Until it wasn’t.

He started working a child sex trafficking case a few weeks later, calling in Dick for help as some of the missing person’s reports were coming out of Blüdhaven. They poured over the casework together. Studied the crime scene photos and pushed sleep deprivation to the max.

It ended bloody.

Not at all how Bruce would have imagined it.

They broke the case on a Friday evening, raided the main hub of operations, out of Blüdhaven underbelly Saturday night, and were greeted with a massacre. In their attempts to flee and cover up any and all evidence—they’d killed their product. Stacked in cages like dogs, children ranging from five to fifteen were left to bleed out after being sliced open like pigs for the slaughter. The stench of blood in the warehouse had been so acute, Bruce’s stomach had revolted. His reaction had been immediate. Visceral and ugly.

They’d been dead for hours. Someone had to have taken care of it earlier in the evening, just before firing up the paper shredders.

It didn’t matter that he and Dick had caught them. That they might have lost a few of the underlings, but they’d gotten the big fish, a man named Frederick Maverick. The damage had already been done.

Bruce had had to step out to get some air, leaving Dick alone with the bodies and the hair-raising pools of blackened blood everywhere. He’d had to slip out the doors and head for the roof, take in deep lungfuls of oxygen to calm the frightened rabbiting of his heart.

Coroner reports showed long-term sexual abuse in the victims. Drugs in their systems. Abrasions on their wrists and ankles from repeatedly being tied up.

It was maddening. Sickening.

Bruce—had processed the scene like he’d done many, many others. With detached calm. He did the job. They called in the BPD, cleared the scene, and silently said nothing about what they’d born witness to. Dick had no reason to think Bruce was struggling. So, when he paused on his bike in the cave, eyeing Bruce critically, he’d given up fairly easy when Bruce told him to go home. Dick hadn’t pushed. He’d not demanded that Bruce talk—or God forbid, explain. He’d simply narrowed his gaze at Bruce, shrugged his shoulders, then left.

But now Bruce was alone.

With his thoughts. With the smells that wouldn’t leave his nose and an odd sense of dread that he couldn’t shake. Not in the least.

Bruce tried taking a shower, hoping it would reset everything. Hoping he could force his brain to let go of the images and replace them with the calm he used during meditation. But it didn’t work. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed till his knuckles were bleeding and his skin was painfully raw, and his throat was so tight he couldn’t breathe.

But then he realized it was because he _really_ couldn’t breathe.

Bruce wasn’t a fool. He had panic attacks before. It was a rare thing, but something he experienced off and on. Especially when coming into contact with any sex crimes case. Usually, he managed to stop it in its tracks. Take a valium, pop a pill and go to bed. By morning, he’d have gotten to a better place. He’d had prevented a full breakdown.

Bruce didn’t think that was going to work. Or maybe he couldn’t think at all because his vision was tunneling down to blacks and grays and all he could hear was the ragged rasp of his breath in his ears.

He fumbled out of the showers in the cave, tugged on sweats still sopping wet and forced his shaking limbs over to where he kept the sedatives. He just needed to get over there and get the drugs and everything would be fine. He’d dose himself, sleep down here and he’d be fine.

It’s what Bruce kept saying in his head as he reached the drug locker. What he kept chanting when he couldn’t get it open because his hands were shaking too badly, and tears were blurring his vision.

But the cabinet was locked.

Of course, it was locked. It had narcotics. High-dose pain medications and anesthetics. Alfred always kept the drugs locked up because he was Alfred. Because he did everything by the book like that.

But Bruce wasn’t thinking clearly enough to make his brain work.

The panic settled in firmly and he crumpled on the floor, curling into himself as wave after wave of crystal clear images flooded him.

Only the images were shifting and morphing, and it wasn’t all nameless people. It was his sons in those cages. Bloody. _Ruined. Used._ And Uncle Philip standing over the bodies, holding a knife that glinted wetly in his hand. His smile curling on one side with amusement as he moved towards Bruce.

Terror set in hard.

It felt like being gassed with Scarecrow toxin. Like he was high. And certainly not in a good way. Bruce was in too deep to move and there was an irrational part of him that felt like he was going to die. Like his heart was beating out of his chest and this was it—where he finally kicked the bucket. And all because he was too fucking weak to stop it. He was too much of a coward. Too scared. Too—too—

He passed out. He must have. Because everything went black and abruptly—stopped.

Maybe for only a minute. Maybe longer.

He’d likely been hyperventilating for too long and his body had naturally forced him to reset. When he came to, lying on the med-bay floor, still beneath the drug locker, Clark was kneeling at his side. Clark was staring down at him, brows knitted, biting his lip, looking like he wanted to touch Bruce but was afraid to make things worse.

There were several emotions that went through Bruce. All of which conflicted.

Relief came first. Because it was Clark and Clark always, always meant safety. Meant that everything would probably be fine. They’d been friends for too many years for it not to. But there was something beneath the relief that made him scuttle backward, hitting his head on the wall in his attempt to move away. His eyes burned and his limbs locked down and hysteria was a toxic thing in his mind and the back of his throat.

Clark lifted both hands in the air, his eyes tight with worry, “Bruce—I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I—” he blinked the water out of his eyes and struggled to make his voice work. It felt like he’d swallowed glass, “I’m having a—”

Clark nodded, “A panic attack.”

“Yes.”

“Is it getting better?”

Bruce swallowed, felt the bile rush up his throat and shook his head firmly, “Yes—no. I need—I need a toilet.”

“Can I touch you?”

It was an odd question. One that should have been a given. Of course, Clark could touch him. Of course, Clark was a safe person. Of course.

But Bruce’s body language said that it wasn’t a given. Said that anyone and everything was a potential enemy and Clark was reading that loud and clear. Clark was seeing things he wasn’t supposed to see. Ever.

The shame was almost as acute as the panic.

“Yes. Just—” Bruce swallowed again, felt a rush of wind, then he was left kneeling in front of the porcelain of a toilet. He’d never been more grateful for Clark’s speed before. It didn’t take much more than smelling the familiar scent of Lysol in the bathroom to make Bruce retch. He’d not eaten in about twelve hours, so everything that came up was acid, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. Every time he thought he was finished the shakes would come and the images would follow, and he’d lose some more. Dry heaves had never felt more frustratingly useless.

Sometime later, Bruce woke up on the tile floor. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he had to have. It made sense. He felt like a used dishrag. Face sweaty and pressed to the cold, mouth so dry he felt desperate for a drink. But the majority of the panic had passed. He was still shaking, every muscle twitching and jerking like mad, but he didn’t feel like he was going to die anymore. He didn’t feel like his heart was just going to give out.

Bruce heard it said one time that a panic attack felt like a heart attack. Was often mistaken for one by the victim. He believed it.

“Can I come in?”

Clark was standing in the open doorway to the bathroom, his face pale and hands in fists. But, to Bruce’s relief, he looked just like Clark. His presence didn’t bring up any extra panic. Bruce felt too exhausted for that. Boneless from the overdose of adrenaline.

“Yes. I’m fine now.”

“What happened, Bruce?”

Bruce blinked up at Clark and shrugged, feeling stupid now. Feeling raw and naked. Like he was sitting without any clothes, sitting on his bathroom floor and it made him want to cover himself with blankets. Lots of them.

“I miscalculated how badly a case would affect me.”

“The child trafficking case in Blüdhaven.”

Clark was always keeping tabs on Bruce’s whereabouts and what cases he was working. It wasn’t just his investigative drive, it was simply something he did for every team member of the JLA. For anyone he deemed friend. He kept an eye or an ear out. Because he was Clark.

Bruce swallowed dryly, glanced at the sink and Clark moved to get him a glass of water unasked. Bruce was too grateful to feel anything else but thanks. He downed the first glass and Clark refilled it, then moved to sit on the floor a couple feet away, back pressed into the sink cabinets.

Bruce had no idea what time it was. He had no idea even which bathroom they were in. Everything was fuzzy and haloed.

“Why didn’t you take your Xanax?”

“I tried. I couldn’t get into the cabinet.”

“Alfred keeps it locked,” Clark sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face, “Don’t you think you should have a few on you? Just in case.”

“I don’t have a panic attack every day Clark,” Bruce knew his voice was edging up into snotty. Into being harsh. He couldn’t make himself care.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything. I’m just—worried. You scared the shit out of me.”

Bruce snorted, keeping his gaze locked on the pattern of tile, “I scared myself. It’s been a while.”

“Why wasn’t Dick here?”

“I sent him home.”

“Of course, you did,” Clark shook his head, “Why didn’t you call me sooner? I would have been here. I could have helped you. Maybe prevented it or gotten you the meds. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Bruce felt tears stinging the backs of his eyes again and didn’t particularly feel like crying in front of Clark. Not when Clark had seen everything else. Not when he was still feeling exposed. “Maybe.”

“Look,” Clark shifted, moved closer and Bruce tensed up, fighting an irrational wave of fear. Clark’s hand dropped where it was moving to touch him. “You’re tired. Can you get to bed on your own?”

“I—yes. I can.”

“I’ll be back in the morning. We can talk then.”

Bruce shook his head, “There’s nothing to talk about. I—”

“Yes, yes there is. I’m going to be here for you Bruce. Even if you fight me. Even if you hate me in the end for it. I’m going to be here.”

“Clark, I could never hate you.”

Clark’s smile was soft, tinged with sadness, “Bruce, you need to let people help you. You can’t do this on your own.”

It was true. Bruce knew that. It was why he went to Grace. Why he’d been so relieved when he’d seen Clark upon waking in the med-bay. He just wasn’t sure what to make of why that also frightened him.

“I’ll call Grace in the morning. See if she can see me sooner than Thursday.”

“I’ll do it. You just sleep.”

“I—”

“Bruce,” Clark warned, and Bruce could only nod. He was too tired to think anyways. “I’ll call Grace. And then I’ll see you soon.”

“Give me a week.”

Clark lifted a brow, “Two days. And I’m not going to apologize for calling Alfred and talking to him. Because you know I’ll be checking in.”

“Fine. Two days.”

“Alright,” Clark stood, offered a hand to Bruce and Bruce managed to take it. His legs felt rubbery upon standing, but he wasn’t going to topple over. It was a victory that was pathetically small.

When Clark left, and Bruce managed to crawl into bed on his own, he fell asleep almost immediately. And woke a few hours later screaming.

The dreams were back.

“I’ve—taken a step backward.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say? What would you call it?”

“You’re angry.”

A pause, a shift on a familiar leather sofa and the ugly feeling of bitterness in his middle. “Yes. I’m angry.”

“Believe or not, Bruce, that’s a good thing.” Grace was wearing a floral dress today and nude lipstick. She looked like she was going on a date. Rarely did Grace dress above the flare of business casual. “Being angry is far better than being apathetic.”

“I’m going backward.”

“Three steps forward, one back is not backward. It’s just a hiccup. Which you can expect—especially in your line of work.”

He lifted a brow at her description of his moonlighting career, tempted to simply state exactly to which she was referring but refrained. They’d never spoken of Batman outright, despite all the referencing they did and it didn’t feel right to start. He needed that compartmentalization.

“Clark said I should be carrying around Xanax with me.”

“It’s not a bad idea, Bruce. People who have panic attacks generally feel more at ease having their medication on them. In case they feel the need to use it. Wouldn’t you have preferred being able to take your medication rather than slipping into a full meltdown?”

“Of course, I would have!” Bruce snapped, anger making him feel foolish, “But I don’t like—”

“Like what?”

“Depending on my medications.”

“They are medically necessary. It has nothing to do with depending on them. You medically, do not make enough serotonin. Xanax is much the same way. It is a need not a want.”

Bruce chewed the inside of his cheek, felt his stomach clench and unclench. “When Clark came to help me—after—I—he made me feel—”

Grace waited for a beat then, “Scared.”

Bruce could only nod.

“It is a natural thing to be afraid of a strong male presence when you are dealing with some unresolved emotions with your own abuse. An abuse which was perpetuated by a strong male in your life.”

“But Clark is safe. Clark has never hurt me.”

“That doesn’t always translate in our minds. In your mind, when you feel that fear, it is coming from the little boy who was hurt. That boy does not know Clark is safe. How could he? You can be the most logical intelligent man in the room, but the boy in your mind is not the same as the man you are today.”

Bruce felt a little sick. “Clark would never hurt me.”

“Clark is a very dear friend. A trusted confidante. But he is going to cause things in you that you may not like—which have nothing to do with him. Or what your relationship is with him.”

Bruce blinked, “My relationship?”

Grace’s expression was carefully neutral like it often was when they were discussing his childhood or the ugliness that it dragged into his present. “Clark may be someone who could be more to you. And instinctively, your psyche fears that. Because of your past.”

“Clark—” Bruce swallowed thickly, “Something more?”

“Yes,” Grace said very seriously, “But you never have to act on that Bruce. Nor am I saying you should. Clark can always stay as your friend. And just that. But I am saying that somewhere in your mind, you’ve already deduced he could make a loving partner to you if you were so inclined, and that is part of where this fear is coming in. He is a threat, whether or not you are consciously aware of it.”

“I don’t—I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything to it. I’m not suggesting anything Bruce. Just an observation that might be helpful to explain all the feelings that are going on in your mind.”

When Bruce remained silent, unable to say much of anything because his brain suddenly felt like it was going to explode, Grace offered him a soft smile and closed her notepad. “Bruce, I know it doesn’t feel like it, but talking about what happened you to as a child, dealing with these emotions and how they affect your mental health, is really good for you. It’s going to get better. Given time. Yes, you had a setback, but everyone does. This was not a major one. It does not undo all the progress you’ve made in the last months.”

“The dreams—” Bruce cleared his throat, “They’re back too.”

“They correlate to your fear levels. Your work with those children in Blüdhaven reopened some ugly memories for you. Clark’s presence in your life, as good as it is, has also brought some things to the surface. But that’s a good thing. Out in the light, we can deal with them. Examine and then put them into their proper place.”

Bruce clenched his jaw, “What place is that?”

“A place where they can’t rule your life. Where the traumas and the upsets, do not overrun you and make your life decisions for you.”

“I want them gone.”

Grace smiled sadly, “Bruce, that isn’t how life works. You can’t simply erase the pain or the grief. We can rearrange it, find better ways to deal with it, so it’s healthier and safer, but we can’t simply remove it. Grief is a part of life. Trauma often is too. You can’t undo Jason dying. You can’t undo Talia hurting you or what happened as a by-product of that. Nor do I think you’d want to, anyway. And you can’t make Uncle Philip disappear. At least, not like you’re wanting to. He can be made to be put away, in his proper place where he can’t have power. But he will remain because he did damage. As will all those memories.”

“I don’t know what to do about Clark.”

Grace shook her head, “Do nothing. At least for now. Things will happen naturally, or they won’t. Focus on your health first. The rest—may surprise you how easy it falls into place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I'm not writing fanfic, I'm writing romance! If that's your thing, check out my website at fillysaltz.wixsite.com/author OR look up my latest novel on Amazon.com, available in paperback or digital format. Dayton's Island is a romantic suspense that will have you on your toes from start to finish.  
> -Felicia Saltzman


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a wee bit--but I'm excited to be uploading a new chapter. Enjoy!

Clark was in love with his best friend. He had been for many, many years.

He loved the slow-boil temper. The rigid organization, calmly irritating focus, fearsome loyalty and quiet brokenness. He loved it all. The scars, the sorrow, the quirks. Clark had learned through their many years of friendship that there wasn’t anything Bruce could do to stop him from loving him.

That didn’t mean Clark was ever going to do anything about it. Or even that he _should_. 

Bruce had never, not once, indicated that he was interested in kindling something between them in return. In all fairness, Clark hadn’t made his attraction obvious. He’d quietly let it grow, let it deepen till it was something like a garden rather than the little flower it had begun, and Clark had resigned himself to loving Bruce alone. To have it all be one-sided.

But over the course of the last month, there were—changes between them.

Clark couldn’t exactly put his finger on what it was that was different. But there was something that had shifted ever since the island and Clark would be lying if he said it didn’t ignite something like hope in him. That it didn’t make him stop wondering what it might be like to tell Bruce one of these days how he’d fallen and fallen hard for far too many years.

It was never the right time to tell Bruce.

There were a million excuses Clark could construct and thousand more beyond that as to why it wasn’t a good idea.

Bruce was too busy for a relationship. Gotham came first. Batman came first. His family, of course, his children—came first. As they should.

There had been the startup of the JLA. Then Jason’s death. Then his revival.

Most recently a bad spell of depression and anxiety.

Clark had seen it before and been a shoulder as much as Bruce had allowed. There had been worse periods of depression than others—times where Clark seriously worried Bruce wouldn’t make it out. Times where Clark was afraid of losing him to the battle.

And it _was_ a battle.

Like fighting disease or cancer that could never be cured. That would never go away.

The first time Clark was witness to Bruce falling into the pit, as Bruce affectionately called it, Clark had been determined to learn everything he could about it, about mental health and what Bruce was struggling with. Perhaps then he could be of use. He could save him.

But then he’d realized that wasn’t how depression worked. You didn’t save someone from something like that. It wasn’t possible. You could stand beside them. You could offer your time, your love, and your arms. But you couldn’t _save_ them. You could only endure. Just like they had to.

The mental health concerns did not detract from Bruce’s desirability. If anything, it might have made it a little worse for Clark.

So, when Bruce called and asked Clark to go hiking with him—he thought nothing of it. He thought it normal, all things considered. Plus, it would be healthy for Bruce. To be out in nature while getting some exercise. It would only be expected to have his best friend along for company. His best, very supportive, very kind and compassionate friend who never failed to show up.

That was Clark.

It was who he was determined to be for Bruce.

Except, out underneath warm sunlight amidst the sharp tang of pine needles and soil, Bruce’s presence was even more alluring. The things that made him attractive to Clark, were stronger. More obvious. And when they stopped at the halfway point for water and rest, Clark was having a hard time putting those feelings he was so careful with back into their box.

Because Bruce was watching him.

Watching him in a way he didn’t usually. Ever.

Bruce was a man who liked to study other people. He liked to learn them. And he was damn good at remembering all the little details of that person. But he’d already learned Clark and somewhere along the way, he’d stopped needing to study him.

“It’s a hot day. Do you need more water?” Clark asked, looking away from Bruce, keeping his hands busy as he dug around his backpack for the bottled water they’d stowed.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Clark kept his eyes on the scenery but he was painfully aware of the fact that Bruce was still watching him. Had been watching him since they’d left the manor. And it was unnerving.

“Bruce—You’ve got to stop.”

“What?”

“You’re staring at me. And maybe I could chalk that up to you being you, but it’s making me uncomfortable. If you’ve got something to say, I wish you would just say it.”

Bruce was frowning now, his brows drawn low and the color high in his cheeks. It was probably from the heat, but it looked good on him. It was endearingly human.

“I’m sorry. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not, nothing,” Clark pressed, “You’ve been quiet. And although that’s normal for you, combined with the staring, I get the feeling you’re trying to psych yourself up to say something to me.”

“I’m—" Bruce chewed his bottom lip, looked out over the scenery. He fell silent for long minutes like he tended to do without even realizing that wasn’t a common occurrence in a discussion. But Clark was used to it and didn’t bother to fill the silence.

“I’ve been doing well. With my therapist and her treatment plan.”

“That’s good,” Clark smiled, “Is that all?”

“No. There’s—she mentioned a few things to me and it’s been bothering me. I just don’t know if I want to—talk about it or not. But I feel like I should. Like it might help.”

Clark shrugged, “You know you can talk to me about anything.”

“I know,” Bruce rolled a shoulder. Clark could see the sweat sliding down the side of his neck and was very tempted to lean forward and wipe it away for him. Strictly to make Bruce feel more comfortable, of course. “And that’s why I’m struggling with what she brought up. It’s confusing.”

Clark frowned now, “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” Bruce sipped on his water slowly, measuring each swallow before speaking again. “I know you know that I have some—history--that make my depression and anxiety worse. But I’ve never spoken to you about it.”

“You don’t need to.”

Bruce smiled wanly at him, “I know that too. You’ve never pushed me. Even though I’m sure you’re curious.”

“I always assumed you would tell me if you ever wanted to. But Bruce, you don’t need to talk about your parents. I know it’s painful for you.”

“No,” Bruce swallowed, his eyes falling to his hands where the veins were standing out rigidly against the skin trying to cool him faster, “No, it’s not about—it’s not about my parents. Something else happened when I was a kid. After they were killed and it—it fucked me up, Clark.”

Clark went very, very still. Held his breath, counted to ten, then let it out. And then only managed to say, “Oh.”

Because, what else could he say? What was a good enough response to such hesitant implications? Bruce would not allow something like _that_ to hang between them unless it was, what people thought of when they thought of fucking up a child via trauma. Clark was no expert, but he could draw lines where Bruce was leading and see connections between behaviors and preferences. He’d always assumed, perhaps stupidly, that the witnessing of his parent’s murder had been enough to exacerbate his depression and anxiety, all on its own. Which of course, it would have been enough.

But that wasn't the only horrible thing that happened to Bruce as a child.

Apparently, his previous assumptions had been very foolish and naïve.

“I’ve never talked about it. Only Grace and Alfred know and even then, I don’t really ever talk about it. I do my best to ignore it. And that sometimes works. But lately, it’s not been working.”

'It'. 'Something'. Bruce couldn't even say what 'it' was and wasn't that even more telling? God, it made Clark's stomach shrivel and his chest hurt. 

Bruce, _his_ Bruce, didn't deserve that. No child did. 

Clark swallowed thickly, risked looking up and found Bruce’s eyes distantly tracing the horizon line. They looked like storm clouds. Dark with secret pains Clark had no business venturing in but was being invited to follow deeper into.

He wanted so badly to be there for Bruce.

He didn’t to help. He just wasn't sure how.

“What’s changed?”

Bruce blinked, his jaw flexing. “Me. Maybe I’m changing. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay to change. Change can be a good thing.”

“Can it?” Bruce’s gaze was suddenly on Clark and it held him fast, like a physical grasp, “Can it be good? What if it’s wrong? What if it fucks things up? Things that have always been good and solid? Things that maybe shouldn’t be changed at all? Could it be good then?”

“Bruce, I don’t—I don’t think I understand what you’re talking about. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Forget it. I’m just—blowing off some steam. I’m just talking. I’m sorry.”

“Bruce, don’t do that.”

“It’s fine, Clark. I’m sorry I confused you.”

“I want to be there for you. I want to help.”

“You do,” Bruce nodded sharply, “you always help. I’m fine. I just—had a moment. Really.”

“You’re not fine. You’re—” Clark shook his head, feeling a strange mix of disappointment and frustration eek into his voice, “You’re shaking." Bruce was. Clark could see it, the shivers that ran down his arms and into his legs, making his grip on that water bottle weak. "I’ve done something to upset you.”

“No.”

“Then what—”

“Clark, let it go. I thought I wanted to bring something up with you. I thought I might be ready. But I was wrong. I’m not. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. That’s fine.”

It wasn’t. Clark could tell it wasn’t.

They finished the hike in silence and when they got to the summit, there was a bitter tang between them that made Clark feel guilty and worried. He’d ruined an opportunity for Bruce to open up and share some of his hurts. He didn’t know how. But somehow, he had. And he felt awful for it. Worse, he wondered if he’d damaged their relationship by not being there for Bruce when he clearly needed Clark to be.

The drive back home was equally uncomfortable and when Clark walked Bruce to the door, it was no surprise he wasn’t invited in. It still stung a little. It still made Clark’s stomach ball up in fear of what happened between them.

It still confused the hell out of him.

A week later, Alfred called Clark and asked him over.

Clark knew the moment he arrived that it wasn’t meant to be a social visit. Bruce was suspiciously absent and Clark immediately suspected that was on purpose. Alfred had planned a secret rendezvous to discuss something.

It put him on edge as he sat with Alfred in the breakfast nook. Alfred had made tea and served up butterscotch biscuits. Always the perfect host. The kitchen smelled like butter and leftover coffee. Like home. And it made Clark’s insides curl with familiarity and warmth despite the inkling of something being wrong on the periphery. The manor had become a place of peace for him over the years. A place for friendship, laughter, and advice. For love. 

Sentimental? Absolutely. But Clark would never say he wasn't that.

“I’ve brought you here because Master Bruce is too stubborn to ask. But I am not.”

“Ask for what.”

“For help.”

Clark sighed, tipping back in the seat, listening to the familiar squeaks of wood beneath his weight. “I’m listening, Alfred. Tell me how I can help.”

Alfred smiled, “You’ve been such a dear friend to him over the years. So kind and understanding of his moods and tendencies. But he is running himself to the ground and though I am told he is making excellent progress during therapy, he is not sleeping.”

“Insomnia again?”

Alfred shook his head, eyes going robin’s egg blue, “No, I’m afraid it’s nightmares. Every night for days on end. He’s falling asleep at work, in between meals, only to wake like he’s seen a ghost.”

Clark frowned, “He told me he had bad things happen to him as a child when we went hiking a few days ago. I wonder if that has something to do with it.”

“It is a possibility. I cannot say what for certain, as it is not my place, but it is a strong possibility. For some reason, this particular depressive episode seems to have brought up some of his childhood trauma and he is struggling to move past it with more difficulty than years previous.”

“He said he’s changed. Things are different.” 

“I am only privy to his treatment plans. Not what goes on during his sessions.”

“You want me to talk with him?”

Alfred shrugged both shoulders elegantly, “I want you to help him. Whichever way he will allow you. In any capacity.”

There was a strange glint in Alfred’s eyes. One that made Clark look down at the table and struggle not to flush with embarrassment. Alfred's eyes were often like windows into a soul. It worked both ways. He could see you as well as you could see him. 

“My dear boy,” Alfred said softly, “I am well aware of your feelings for Master Bruce and have been for many years. And I approve of your interjection in his life, in any way, shape, or form.”

Clark’s throat tightened to the point of pain and he felt the backs of his eyes suddenly burn. He couldn’t look at Alfred. He could barely even breathe.

“It’s—it’s not something I ever thought to do anything about Alfred. He’s not shown any interest and we’ve been friends for a very long time.”

“Master Bruce is a complicated man.”

Clark laughed, sniffing as he rubbed away the moisture from his eyes, “That, he is.”

“He doesn’t know his own feelings. But they are there.”

“You don’t know that, Alfred.”

Alfred lifted a brow, “Don’t I? I’ve raised him since nappies. I know him better than anyone. And though he is unaware of his own feelings on the matter, he runs to no one else when the burdens of his heart are too heavy. He calls no one else when he’s lonely. He sees no one else when he’s weak. Just you. Only ever you.”

Clark shook his head, “He may not want to do anything about those feelings, Alfred. _If_ they even exist. And with everything that’s been going on, with his depression acting up, it’s not a good time.”

“Love obeys no timeframe.”

“You sound like a greeting card,” Clark snorted.

“Perhaps,” Alfred’s smile was soft again. Fatherly. “Please stay for supper. Speak with him. Maybe not about this, maybe just about the nightmares. Offer him what I cannot.”

“And what’s that?”

Alfred sighed, “Comfort, Master Clark. Comfort.”

Bruce didn’t arrive home till close to six and it was obvious the moment he saw Clark waiting for him in the study, that he was in no mood to converse.

He looked ragged.

Dark circles under his eyes, skin pale and waxen, shoulders slumped. He looked beaten down by a weight Clark couldn’t even begin to fathom. A weight he was grateful he didn’t have to carry.

“Alfred invited me,” Clark said by way of greeting. He’d already poured them both a scotch, neat, the moment he heard Bruce’s car pull into the garage. Bruce accepted the drink with a lifted brow then toed off his shoes and went to curl into the sofa.

He looked small sinking into the cushions, tucking his feet up under himself. Vulnerable.

Clark was the only person allowed to see the great Batman, not at the ready. It was something Clark tried never to take for granted.

“Long day?”

“The longest,” Bruce closed his eyes, tipped his head back on the sofa and sighed softly. He looked like he might have lost weight again. Which meant he wasn't eating either.

“Alfred says you’re not sleeping. Nightmares are keeping you up. I’ve been tasked with helping you. In any way, I can.”

Bruce snorted, “And how the hell do you suppose you’re going to help me sleep nightmare-free, Kent? Frighten them away with your boyish charm?”

“No. But I could stay. I could be there when they wake you. Stay awake and watch crappy TV till you can fall back asleep. Whatever you need, whatever will be helpful to you, I can do that.”

Bruce’s eyes opened to tired slits and watched him warily, “I’m not sure that would help. According to my therapist, that might make them worse.”

Clark frowned, “What?”

“You being around me. It’s making them worse.”

“I’m—I’m making your nightmares worse? I don’t—I don’t understand.”

Bruce lifted the glass of scotch to his lips and smiled bitterly, “It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“I’m still not—”

“You’re a man. And men don’t always compute as safe people when I’m asleep.”

Clark knew he was staring. He knew he was gaping, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It took him far too many minutes to connect the dots of what Bruce was trying to say without having to ask him to clarify. Clark was a man and whoever had hurt Bruce before, had been too. Men were dangerous.

Clark felt a little sick. “I would never hurt you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But I wouldn’t hurt you, Bruce.”

“I know that,” Bruce snapped, suddenly downing his drink, then standing angrily. “I know that. Thank you. I’m well aware you’d never hurt me. You’d never do anything. And you never have. Just—do us both a favor and go home. No one can help me.”

“Bruce, that’s not fair. You don’t know that. Maybe if I talked with Grace, she could help me to—”

“To what?” Bruce growled, waving a hand at Clark, “Fix me? Seal up all the cracks and make me new? I hate to break it to you Kent, but that’s never going to happen.”

“That isn’t what I said. Stop putting words in my mouth, Bruce.”

“But it’s what you want, isn’t it? Me all fixed and better. Brand spanky new. So, you don’t have to run around playing nursemaid to me all the time. So, you don’t have to worry that at any moment, I could slip away and slit my wrists before someone can fucking stop me. God forbid.”

“Stop.”

“Why? It’s what you worry about. We both know it.”

“Stop it, Bruce.”

Bruce’s eyes had gone shiny with tears and were a wounded gunmetal gray. Angry. Clark ached. He ached so badly but he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to make any of this better and despite loving the man in front of him, it just wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he needed.

“Just let me rot. I’m not worth your time.”

“Yes, you are. You’re worth every minute.”

“Then you're blind. And a martyr. You have no business being here, putting yourself in my warpath over and over.”

Clark ground his teeth, “I’ve been your friend for the last fourteen years, Bruce. I think I’ve earned the right to care about you by now.”

“I’m a lost cause.”

“No. No, you’re not.”

They stared at one another. Blue meeting gray. Pain fighting with warmth and Clark willed Bruce to understand there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, that would make Clark run. That would make him leave. If the message managed to be conveyed, Clark couldn't tell. But Bruce's gaze fell first.

It seemed to finally take the wind out of Bruce’s sails and his shoulders fell. He looked down at his feet, green checkered business socks, some of Clark's favorite, and said nothing else.

Clark didn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

He stayed through an awkwardly silent meal. He stayed after the meal and followed Bruce upstairs to his bedroom, despite Bruce casting him expressions that were somewhere between exasperated and pained. Clark followed. He stayed.

He said goodnight when Bruce got into bed and gave him his back. And then he went across the hall and got into the guest bed and waited.

It only took two hours for Bruce to wake up screaming.

The sound of it made every hair on Clark’s body stand stiff with alarm. He rushed across the hall, barreled into the bedroom and found Bruce kicking madly at the sheet trapping his legs. Clark didn’t think before acting, he simply moved. He was already tugging Bruce into his chest, smoothing a hand through his hair, down his back, over and over, while murmuring the man’s name before he could process what to do. His body had already decided what needed doing.

“Bruce,” Clark murmured, “I’m here. It’s alright. You’re safe.”

The words felt paltry and useless. But they were all he had to give.

It took Clark saying those words five times before Bruce went limp against him. Before Bruce’s breathing evened and instead of rigid muscles and frightened breathing, he had fistfuls of Clark’s sweatshirt and was breathing soft pants into Clark’s neck. Warm damp breaths that made goosebumps ripple down Clark’s arms. That made him close his eyes and swallow thickly to tamp down the protective surge of feeling in his chest. It would be far too easy to dip a couple inches and kiss Bruce. To wash away the fear with lips and tongue and teeth. To show Bruce he was loved, always and forever.

Bruce fell asleep thirty minutes later, still clinging, hair damp and face feverishly hot against Clark’s skin. Clark didn’t think it was strange then to lay down next to his friend. Bruce needed him. Bruce would want him close. And maybe he was taking something for himself by staying near as well. Maybe he was being a little selfish, but Clark thought he might deserve it. 

Besides, when he tried to pry one of Bruce’s hands out of his sweatshirt, Bruce gripped more fiercely and started to stir from sleep again. And Clark didn’t want that. Clark wanted Bruce to sleep.

So, he stayed.

And he listened to Bruce’s breathing and he prayed that Bruce wouldn’t wake again from nightmares. But if he did, he would be there to chase them away. As long as Bruce let him. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word mawing--should be a word. It's not and I used it anyway because I like the sound of it. ;P

“How are you sleeping, Bruce? Last week, you’d been going on a long streak of nightmares and we discussed starting a sleeping aid.”

Bruce shifted on the sofa, his mouth tipping at the corner, “I’ve slept for four nights in a row.”

Grace lifted a brow, “Nightmare-free?”

“No. But I only woke a few times. And I was able to go back to sleep much quicker.”

Grace smiled proudly, jotting something down on her notepad, “What changed? What broke the spell?”

Bruce hesitated to answer. Not because he didn’t want Grace to know, but more because it was hard to share, even with her. It was hard to open himself up about something that felt so new and terrifying.

“Clark.”

Grace’s brows both shot up, “Clark?”

“He—he’s stayed over at the manor for the last four nights.”

“Stayed over?”

“Strictly in a platonic way. He’s been a good friend to me. He always has. Over and above.”

Grace pursed her lips, tapping her pen, “And he is aware that is all you are to him? Just friends?”

“I don’t—” Bruce’s throat suddenly felt terribly dry, “I’m not sure that’s all he is to me.”

Grace’s expression didn’t change. Her brows didn’t rise as if she shocked by this small revelation, but Bruce could feel that she was surprised he admitted such to her. Particularly, as he’d been silent on what she’d said about Clark only a couple of weeks previous.

“This is a new development for you then. A possibly confusing one.”

“Yes.”

It was very, very confusing. He’d never seen Clark like that before. And it wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed Clark was attractive, or that he’d never been interested in men before because he had. It was that Clark had always simply been a safe person for him. Someone he could share with, without the possibility of sex getting tossed into the mix.

He’d spent the last days agonizing over what his feelings meant.

He’d watched Clark, too closely, but he needed to. He needed to try and peel off all the layers of comfort Bruce had added to Clark’s visage in order to see _more_. To see if Clark was someone he could want. _Like that._

And what he'd found was that he was painfully attracted. More so, than he'd ever been to anyone. 

Bruce wasn’t a fading flower. He wasn’t a prude. He’d had sex. With women. Women were always good. He enjoyed most things about them, but he’d never liked to delve deeper into a relationship before. His public persona, the vapid billionaire slut, he portrayed himself as—had no qualms whatsoever about sleeping with anything that came along his path.

That person was an ephemeral lie. It was a fallacy that only his closest friends knew about.

“You’ve slipped off somewhere. Take me with you.”

Bruce blinked up at Grace, frowned, then steadied his gaze back on his knees. He’d not moved his feet off the carpeting once since he’d sat down, but he didn’t feel the urge to fidget. He felt frozen, locked in the joints to this position. Weighted down by the plethora of feelings and emotions he didn’t know what to do with.

“I’ve spent the last days trying to understand myself and am more confused than ever.”

“Explain, maybe I can help sort things for you.” 

Bruce shrugged a shoulder, leaning deeper into the cushions, willing his muscles to uncoil. They remained stiff. “I find myself noticing that Clark is a handsome man. And realizing that on some level, I’ve probably always been attracted to him.”

“Have you ever been attracted to men before?”

There was a flutter in Bruce’s gut, a very uncomfortable one that made him want to curl his arms inwards and protect. He resisted the urge. “Yes.”

“Have you done anything about it?”

“No.”

God, no.

He would have tripped headlong into a panic attack, had he ever acted upon any of his frightening impulses in regards to his attraction to men. Though he found them fascinating, though Bruce suspected he was far more interested in men than he was women, he stayed very far away from ever going down that path.

Fear made him too weak to risk it.

She nodded, “This doesn’t surprise me. Men are threats to you. To put yourself in a position of such extreme vulnerability, would undoubtedly make you shy far away from contact.”

“I—I know Clark would never—” Bruce felt his cheeks prickle and curled his toes in his shoes, “I know he would never hurt me. He would never—force me.”

“But you are still afraid. For good reason, Bruce. You’ve been hurt before. Now, tell me, what does Clark look like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Give me his stats. If you had to describe him, give me a few words to do it. Height, weight, personality. Anything.”

“He’s—he’s a Boy Scout. Soft. Kind. Everything opposite of his physique. Which is impressive,” Bruce had to keep looking down to get the rest out, “He’s taller than me. Broader. He’s—stronger.”

_So much stronger than Bruce. He could do anything he wanted to him. He could hurt Bruce._

“Do you think if he were smaller, less imposing in stature, that you might feel less physically threatened by him?”

Bruce wasn’t sure. Possibly? “I don’t know.”

“You don’t need to know for sure. But I can guess that his size might have something to do with it. That’s simple science. A bigger man can overpower you and make you do things you don’t want to do. And it has happened to you before you,” Grace’s brows drew together, “I might also that Clark isn’t just a man you’ve found off the streets. He’s not a stranger to you. He’s a very dear friend. A best friend. Which makes trusting him that much harder when it comes to this. It makes it more frightening. This isn’t just your body we’re talking about giving to someone, it’s your heart.”

Bruce could only nod in response to Grace’s astutely put statements. She’d hit the nail on the end. Exactly. Oh, so painfully. He was feeling the raw ache of it deep.

Grace shifted, tapped her pen, “Would you be averse to bringing Clark along for one of your sessions ever? So, you could have a support person present while bringing some of these things up?”

“What?”

Alarm. Fear. Both rushed up Bruce’s throat and clamped down hard.

“Hold on,” Grace lifted a hand, “I’m not suggesting any time soon, Bruce. Don’t panic. But I do think, it might be beneficial to both of you, if I could facilitate some of these conversations that need to happen.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”

She lifted a brow, “Don’t you? This man means something to you. More than anyone else I’d wager. And has the potential to be a significant person in your life for the foreseeable future. He needs to know about you. All about you, for that to happen.”

“Clark—” Bruce scrubbed both hands down his face and felt the stubble he’d not bothered to scrape off. “Clark can’t know. He’ll see me different. He’ll know then and I don’t think I could handle him knowing.”

“He knows about the depression and anxiety.”

“Yes.”

“And about the cutting?”

“Y-yes. I think so. I’ve never talked about it specifically, but he’s seen the scars. He knows.”

She nodded sharply, “And he hasn’t run yet. He hasn’t turned his back on you. I don’t think he will with this either. If anything, it will fill in the missing pieces he’s likely been wondering about.”

“I don’t think I can.”

Grace looked thoughtful for a moment, soft and motherly. Then she reached out and grabbed his wrist, did that oddly grounding gesture where she squeezed his pulse and took a few solemn breaths. He took the breaths with her, forcing his lungs to inflate then deflate. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Bruce. You never do.”

One breath in, slow, slow out.

“But if you don’t do anything, if you don’t let Clark in all the way, you can never be together. Do you understand?”

“I—” he did. He understood it perfectly. Even if he was stupid enough to roll over all the scars and baggage he would be carrying into a relationship, Clark would know the moment he tried to get Bruce naked how terrifying that was to him. And there would need to be explanations. There would have to be reasons. “I understand.”

“Good. Now,” she smiled again, eyes crinkling sagely at the corners, “Are you still doing the other things? Journaling, screaming at the heavens? Eating? Positive self-talk?”

He nodded, closing his eyes, “Yes. Self-talk, not so much. But I’m trying.”

“And it’s helping.”

His mouth lifted at the corner, “Yes. And no. I’m incredibly conflicted at present. It makes enjoying my success with tamping down the depression—feel not nearly as valid.”

Grace’s smile immediately faded, “Bruce, I am very proud of how far you have come. You impress me daily, at your strength and perseverance. _You_ should be proud of the work you’ve put in. You’ve made amazing progress.”

Such kind words of praise were hard to hear. Like needles in a water balloon, piercing and slowly deflating him. “I wish I felt that way.”

“Time, Bruce,” she shook her head softly, “It takes so much time to undo what has been done to us. And though I keep saying it, I think you need to keep hearing it. It will get better. This too shall pass.”

_This too shall pass._

Grace’s words resonated with him for the rest of the day and into the next. When Bruce found he couldn’t focus on work any longer and desperately wanted to move, to do anything physical, the words followed him into the gym.

He beat the heavy bag with violent precision.

He attacked and fought, barreling through one emotion after the next. Giving a face to the pain and the anger in his stomach that made him feel sick. If it was possible to turn scars into corporeal beings, he wouldn’t hesitate to commit homicide. If it meant being done with this forever. If it meant it could finally be over.

That there would be a relief. 

Clark found him in the gym over an hour later, lifting dumbbells, soaked to the skin with sweat and so red he looked like he might stroke out. Clark didn’t stop his workout.

He waited along the wall, two water bottles at his feet. A towel looped over an arm.

He waited quietly, patiently ignoring how Bruce was obviously punishing his body in favor of silent support. It was something that Clark had perfected over the years and that Bruce was incredibly grateful for.

When he finished, when he couldn’t lift another pound, not even if he wanted to, Bruce finally staggered over to Clark and drank the entire bottle of water offered. He sagged into the wall, closing his eyes, then he heard Clark shift to face him. And he knew they were about to have one of those quiet conversations about taking better care of himself. About being careful.

He didn’t mind it as much as he should have.

Or maybe he was too weakened by all the physical and mental beatings he’d been giving himself to put up much of a fight. 

“Alfred called.”

“Doesn’t he always?”

“You’ve been down here for a couple hours. You skipped dinner.”

“I’ll grab something to eat when I go upstairs. Coming?” Bruce murmured, like an afterthought, though it was anything but. He wanted to be around Clark like he a magnet drawn to metal. He couldn’t seem to help himself.

They walked silently to the kitchen, a safe foot of distance between them and Clark didn’t start into his main event of chastising Bruce’s behavior until Bruce had downed an entire bowl of Life cereal and was contemplating a second.

He was hungrier than he realized.

“Your knuckles are bleeding.”

“It’s nothing new,” Bruce argued, slipping off a bar stool to get some paper towels to dab at them. The dry papery texture of the towels made him wince and Clark was at his side before he could protest. But the man never listened to him anyway. Not about things like this. Bruce suspected it made Clark feel useful to help in the menial and that he needed it.

It still didn’t make it any easier to stomach the fluttering in his chest when Clark was so close to him.

It was different than when they shared his bed for sleep. Sleep was a need and Clark was just helping that need. The cage of Clark’s arms was a safety mechanism, not something for the sheer pleasure of touching. And that made it feel less physical and more necessary.

But anything outside of those bounds, any accidental brush, any strange twinge of desire that threatened to choke the life clean out of Bruce, had him wanting to back into the corner with fangs bared. It was a frightening mixture of desire and fear that made him feel immobile. That made him freeze, stalk stiff, when Clark wetted the paper towels in the sink, then returned to dab gently at Bruce’s ripped up knuckles.

Clark lifted Bruce’s right hand, wiped clean, but still obviously ravished and blew cool air onto the wound. Bruce shivered, then back up abruptly enough to hit the counter with his ass. Panic flared wide and mawing in his middle and even though Clark hadn’t moved, he was forced to step further away. To put the counter between them as an extra safety measure too. His heart was a steady staccato in his ears, his face burning with shame. 

“Bruce?”

“It’s nothing. I’m tired. I should—go to bed.”

“Do you want me to stay again?” Bruce was aware that was why Clark had come over. He knew it wasn’t just that Alfred called. Clark had been essentially bed-sharing for almost a week. It made his stomach roll to realize just how deeply he’d gotten himself. He _needed Clark_ but that need fucked with his other wounds and made him feel panicky and small. It screwed things up.

Things that never should have been screwed up, to begin with.

It had been a long time since Bruce had felt anything other than fear about Uncle Philip. But there was no mistaking the anger that flooded in to fill the gaps in his chest.

“No.”

“You sure?” Clark’s eyes darted to where Bruce had been standing a moment before, the wet bloodied paper towel sitting like a bad omen on the tile where it had fallen in the scuffle.

“Yes. Positive. I just need some sleep. It’s nothing I can’t handle on my own. But thank you for the offering. You’ve already done too much.”

“I don’t do things for you to keep track of them Bruce,” Clark murmured, brows drew low, eyes still on the floor. He looked like a kicked dog and it was making Bruce feel even worse.

He couldn’t handle this right now. He didn’t want to handle this right. Not when his head and his body were in such strident opposition.

“I know that, Clark. I do. I’m sorry—it’s just not been a good day.”

Clark finally looked up, eyes denim blue and soft, “I know.”

Bruce tried a smile and failed, it fell flat. “Goodnight, Clark.”

“Goodnight, Bruce.”

Clark woke at about two in the morning to the sounds of Bruce having another nightmare. He was so attuned to the sounds of it, to what it did to Bruce’s heart, that he could picture every little breath as if he was standing right beside him.

And it made Clark want to roll and scream into his pillow.

It made him want to say ‘fuck it’ and do something about the infernal dissatisfaction of being left helpless, even though he had the tools to help. He knew his presence helped Bruce sleep. He’d seen it firsthand. But Bruce had to give permission for that help.

There was nothing Clark could do.

But the longer Bruce thrashed in bed, the more Clark couldn’t settle and he started pacing in his apartment, bare feet drumming on the carpeting, probably keeping his neighbors up. Twenty minutes in, Bruce finally woke up and Clark audibly sighed in relief.

He went to his kitchen, made himself a cup of tea, listened to Bruce doing much the same things. Fumbling down the stairs, going to his kitchen, trying to make tea too. He'd probably pick something with chamomile and use only the barest amount of honey.

But it—it just stopped.

Clark hesitated, one hand still lifted from where he’d been reaching for his own honey supply as he focused harder, straining to hear what had made Bruce stop and then he heard the sharp intake of breath.

Followed swiftly by a bellow loud enough to make Clark jump.

Bruce was screaming. And it wasn’t a frightened scream. It was angry. It was furious. It was pain incarnate and Clark could do nothing but hunch into himself and listen. Could do nothing but picture what Bruce was doing.

And it was an awful picture. 

Dishes crashed to the floor, cabinets were ripped open, pots and pans flung in a rage. Clark had never seen Bruce lose his temper. He’d never seen him so angry, but he it was scalding hot now. It was bitterly visceral to listen to.

_“Why can’t you just—leave—me alone!”_

Clark jerked, dropping his mug to shatter on his floor. Bruce couldn’t know—he couldn’t know he was listening. He couldn’t be upset that he was worried and checking in. Could he? Oh, God.

_“Leave me alone! Leave me!”_ Bruce’s voice was a hoarse scream, his vocal cords straining past the gravel of what sounded like tears. Tears that were already starting to fall down his cheeks.

Clark could hear them. He was so attuned to what was happening, he could hear the rustle of fabric on skin.

_“Master Bruce! What is the meaning of this?”_

There was a broken sounding sob, then the brush of slippers over broken glass and shuffling feet deeper into the chaos. And Clark knew that Alfred had to be kneeling now. Bruce must have sat down or fallen and Alfred was kneeling in front of him, doing something. But Clark couldn’t hear well enough and he was feeling dreadfully sick.

_“You’re alright. You’re safe.”_

_“I’ll never be safe,”_ Bruce snapped angrily, rage still coloring him in shades of red and burnt orange, “ _he’s always there. He’s always in my fucking head and I can’t get him out. He’s—he’s always there, Alfred. I can’t get him out.”_

Bruce’s tone was so desolate, so stark and robbed of hope, it made Clark’s eyes burn.

Not Clark. He wasn’t talking about Clark.

But somehow, that made it worse. Sure, Clark wasn’t the source of his best friend’s agony, but someone else was. The man who hurt Bruce. The one who’d done something to a child that was so heinous it made a grown man pulverize his kitchen out of pain. Out of rebellious anger that he could do nothing to control what had been done to him.

Clark couldn’t fall back to sleep. He lay awake worried and listening until Bruce and Alfred got the kitchen cleaned up. He lay awake picturing what Bruce was doing as he didn’t go back to bed, but rather disappeared somewhere else in the house with the sound of papers rustling and keys clicking. It sounded like his office.

When sunrise broke the darkness of his bedroom, Clark gave in and texted Bruce.

_I heard your nightmare. I heard what happened in the kitchen. I’m sorry._

There were long minutes, minutes where Clark was certain that Bruce wouldn’t text back. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or certainly the last.

Regardless, Bruce’s short reply managed to make Clark sag into the mattress with relief.

**_I’m fine._**

A pause, then, **_You shouldn’t be listening in. That was private._**

 **** _I know. I’m sorry. I was worried. I couldn’t stop listening once I started._

_**Just nightmares.**_

Clark bit his lip, debating his next move, desperate to not fall into a mistake that could hurt them. _Can I help you tonight? Will you let me?_

The questions reeked of something Clark was terrified would leak through. Too much concern, too much feeling, just—too much. Bruce might see that beneath those pleading words, there was a wealth of love that could fell him.

**_Yes_**

It was all Clark needed to hear.

It was enough. It had to be. It—it would be.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When you are open about depression and anxiety people mark you down as a miserable person. I'm not a miserable person. I'm an intense person. When I feel happiness or love I feel those things intensely, and I feel pain intensely. It's the price of feeling."  
> -Matt Haig
> 
> What he said! Food for thought. Thank you for all of your outstanding comments and love on this fic. It's one that's near and dear to me and ya'll have been great. Thank you.

There was a part of Bruce, that wanted to go on pretending that everything was fine.

He wanted to ignore the subtle differences in the way he moved around Clark. To not remember that in the night, he clung desperately to him and not just because of his nightmares. But because he was becoming increasingly addicted to the smell of Clark’s skin. To the feel of a warm body wrapped around him. To have a safety net that made sure to scare away his demons. By the fifth day, the nightmares had fled.

But Clark remained and neither one of them said anything.

Bruce wasn’t sure what he was doing. Didn’t know if he wanted to know. But he was aware of the spiral of his thoughts and the gravitational pull that was slowly making it almost impossible to ignore the draw of them.

Bruce started looking forward to going to bed each night because it meant he could be near Clark without having to need an explanation. He thought about Clark during the slow parts of his day, between captures on patrol, over mindless lunches and just before falling asleep a breath away. He imagined himself going to sleep beside Clark every night and the fear didn’t cling to him.

He found himself wondering why the idea of Clark being near wasn’t as frightening as it was only a handful of weeks previous. He found himself constructing ways of having a conversation about what he wanted—what Clark wanted—if that might be the same thing. Clark was a dear friend and had been for a long, long, time but what if he wanted to be more? What if he felt the same?

Bruce was a coward. He knew he was.

Still, sitting on Grace’s couch, admitting such, felt awful. He told her about his feelings. He told her about his indecision and how it was eating him alive. He told her that he didn’t think he could do it. But in the same breath, he wasn’t certain how he could _not_ tell Clark, because the feelings were so strong. Because every time he saw Clark, his chest tightened painfully, and he _wanted_.

It made Bruce feel selfish. Because for Clark to even consider being with him, on that level, there would need to be far more effort put in on his end to make such a union happen. Bruce wasn’t a fool. He was well aware that any advances Clark might make, anything physical might result in terror and sour feelings. It frightened him all the more. It made him question what the hell he was doing and why he was just letting things lull between them—when it was clear they should not. It was clear something needed to be done and soon.

Clark couldn’t keep sleeping at the manor and not discuss what was happening.

But Bruce said nothing. And Clark said nothing. And they kept on with the arrangement as if it wasn’t wreaking havoc in either of them.

Bruce’s junk journal was full of angst-ridden thoughts. The pages marked deep by a hard hand and cramped script. He spent more time than he ever had before, pouring himself into the leather journal.

He took long walks. He screamed every evening without fail as if his life depended upon it. Bruce even added in an extra therapy session with Grace, all in the hopes that it would help. That it might ‘fix’ him enough to get past this.

But it wasn’t helping enough.

Clark snored. Bruce liked the sound of it when he woke first and crawled out of bed to shower. Clark’s skin smelled like eucalyptus and mint. It was fast becoming Bruce’s favorite smell, above all others. He would never be able to associate that smell with anyone but Clark.

Clark liked his coffee with cream and sugar. Lots of both.

He enjoyed walking around the manor with bare feet and slept in shorts and a t-shirt, the cotton of which felt absurdly soft to the touch. Clark was a man of comfort and though Bruce knew that, had always known that, it was different to experience it on such an intimate level.

The more he saw, the more he wanted.

The more he panicked.

Bruce was a walking dichotomy of emotions. Every day, his anxiety grew as did his resolve. On a Sunday afternoon, with gray light washing the room and the quiet hum of the grandfather clock as a companion, Bruce almost told Clark. He almost said everything.

It would have come spilling out like a dam bursting at the seams. He had so much to say. He needed to tell Clark about Uncle Philip and why they would need to go slow and that he’d never been with a man before because it terrified him, but God, did he want Clark as he’d never wanted anyone before and, and—

He’d not been able to do it.

What if Clark gaped at him? What if that teasing warmth in his eyes faded as he realized his best friend was in love with him and that he didn’t feel the same? It would end them. Bruce would lose the one person he trusted above everyone.

He would lose Clark.

So, like the coward he was, Bruce had looked away from Clark. He’d forced himself to stop staring at the way the light looked in that dark hair or on those sharp cheekbones. Bruce had stuffed the feelings and the ugliness and the pain away into the box marked _off-limits_ once more and resolved to say something to Clark about their sleeping arrangements.

Soon. 

Maybe just—one more night. One more night and then he’d tell Clark his help was no longer needed, and they could go back to just being friends and he could stop imagining more. He could stop pining like a lovesick teenager and move on.

As he well should.

Clark stayed over at the manor for two weeks.

They didn’t talk about the arrangement. They didn’t discuss what was happening or why or even what it could possibly mean for the future. Somehow, they just existed in their bubble without the need to analyze the potential pitfalls of sharing a bed every night.

Clark silently accepted his new reality.

He did—nothing.

They went to JLA meetings together, they ate together, they read books in bed together. When Bruce went on patrol in Gotham, Clark headed off to Metropolis for his work as Superman. Daylight hours were of course filled with the usual responsibilities like a job, which Clark dutifully showed up to, every day. He wrote his articles and acted absolutely normal around Lois and Perry.

He did—nothing.

When Bruce rolled in the middle of the night and clutched at his shirt, burying his nose into Clark’s chest or God, even his neck, Clark held himself still. He touched only as much as was necessary and he silently did—nothing.

But all the doing nothing, all of the not saying anything, all of the silent shredding of information he was doing and second-guessing the new level of torture he’d assigned himself, had taken its toll.

Clark was tired. Clark was worn to the bone. Clark was absurdly prepared to pounce on the next opportunity to press Bruce into the wall and take just a taste of what had been under his nose for too many nights to count.

And that frightened him. It worried him and made him feel such immense guilt that by the sixteenth day of doing nothing, Clark decided he couldn’t take it anymore.

He needed a break.

Clark waited till Bruce got home from work. He waited till supper was finished and pleasantries had been exchanged. He waited till he had Bruce’s full attention as Bruce was murmuring about work in an offhanded way that reminded Clark of an old man discussing the weather. With absolute boredom.

And then he finally spat out what he should have days ago.

“Bruce—I’m going to sleep at my own apartment tonight.”

Bruce stopped at the mouth of the study, a place they regularly graduated to for drinks or maybe reading. “Why?”

“Because it’s been a couple weeks. And I—maybe I miss it. My own space.”

“Oh,” Bruce’s cheeks flushed a dusty pink as he looked down at the floor, “You should have said something sooner. You didn’t need to keep staying.”

Guilt tasted sour in the back of Clark’s mouth. Bruce was misinterpreting Clark’s motives and Clark was going to let him. It was better this way.

“I wanted to. But maybe I need a little break. You know, my own bed for a few nights.”

“You don’t need to come back. The dreams are gone,” Bruce’s voice held no emotion in it. It made Clark wary.

“Alright. But if they come back, I can easily be here. And I want to be. So please, don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Of course.”

So polite. So—cold.

It made Clark scowl down at his feet and feel stupid for worrying about how Bruce would react to him not staying. Worse, it made him feel foolish for being so affected by Bruce’s nearness that he had to deny his friend at all.

They spent the remainder of the evening discussing League business and Clark wasn’t foolish enough to think that was by accident. Bruce kept their conversations clear of any sort of personal anecdotes and was clearly trying to keep things business-like. Which annoyed Clark. But there wasn’t much to be done about it. Occasionally, Bruce got like this. He shut people back out and put up his walls. Clark supposed he deserved that.

He’d made it clear he wanted his own space and thus, Bruce thought he was giving him that.

If only he knew how much Clark didn’t actually mean what he’d said.

When it was time to leave for the evening, it was strangely uncomfortable. Clark wanted to bend down and hug Bruce. He wanted to be nearer, even if it would only be for a breath but found he couldn’t. Not with Bruce refusing to make eye contact and folding his arms over his chest like a barrier. The ‘hands off’ sign he was giving was loud and clear. Clark had to respect that.

What he didn’t expect, was for Bruce to keep it up.

One week passed. Two. Three.

After three weeks and four days, Clark gave up and showed up at the manor uninvited with a box Bruce’s favorite maple donuts. He’d flown all the way to Canada to get the treat and he was hoping it would smooth things over between the two of them. It had to.

Whatever had happened, Clark had to fix it.

It was as simple as that.

Bruce answered the door instead of Alfred and looked surprised to see him. Which shouldn’t have bothered Clark in the least, but absolutely did. They hadn’t spoken in person for three weeks and four days. They went from sharing a bed, doing everything together to do nothing together. Bruce had actively been ignoring him. Not answering text messages. Delaying phone calls. Avoiding being alone with him. Then he had the gall to look surprised that Clark had gotten fed up with it?

It made Clark feel more on edge with Bruce that he could recall ever being. And he didn’t like that. Not in the least.

“Clark,” Bruce forced a smile on his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “It’s nice to see you.”

“Is it?” Clark asked, not caring that he sounded disbelieving. He was.

“Of course,” Bruce frowned, “Come in. Alfred is out getting some groceries. It’s just you and me. Want some tea?”

“Sure.”

Clark was used to this act. The one where Bruce could be very charming and host-like. The one where he pretended nothing was wrong and everything was daisies and rainbows. But Clark never fell for it. He was like a walking lie-detector. He could hear Bruce’s heart, a rapid rhythm in his chest and the way the man’s breath sounded pinched.

All the signs of a man under duress. The question was if Clark was the cause for this reaction or if something else was.

He didn’t miss how Bruce’s hands shook when he poured hot water into two mugs and let tea bags seep. He didn’t somehow not see the dark circles under Bruce’s eyes or the hollowing of his cheeks because he’d lost more weight.

Clark could see it all.

And it made it that much harder to keep his mouth shut.

“You’ve lost weight.”

Bruce lifted a brow, “Have I?”

“Yes. You’ve not been eating again. Why?”

“Is this an interrogation Clark?” Bruce sounded suddenly weary. He sounded tired. “Because if it is, I’m afraid I’m not in the mood.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” Bruce had his back to Clark, his shoulders curving inward as if to make his frame smaller, though that was hardly possible. Despite the weight-loss, Bruce was still a solid two-hundred pound and was only a couple inches shorter than Clark’s six-foot-four frame. He was as domineering in stature as the Man of Steel, if not more.

“You know exactly what, Bruce. Stop with the polite crap. I know you aren’t doing well, and I know you’ve been avoiding me like the plague since—since I went back to my apartment. But I want to know why.”

“Why?” Bruce murmured, voice oddly distant.

Clark frowned, moving to Bruce’s side to better see his face. Bruce wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t even allowing him to see his face and that was all a calculation. It was on purpose. A better to way to hide what was brewing beneath the silver in those eyes. It just managed to piss Clark off. “Yes, why. We were seeing each other every day. I wanted to sleep at my place again, not lose you entirely. But that’s what happened, and I want to know why.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You look awful.”

Bruce’s mouth tipped up wryly, but he was still looking out the kitchen windows and not at Clark. “Thank you. Alfred would agree with you.”

“Help me understand. Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Bruce tensed, “No, you didn’t. You were right to go back to your apartment. I wasn’t being very—fair.”

“Fair?”

“Yes,” Bruce breathed out the word like a prayer, his eyes closing, “I wanted you with me, because it helped, but that wasn’t fair to you. It had to be exhausting helping me every night.”

“It wasn’t.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered open, his brows drawing low, “I—I don’t understand—then why—”

“Because I needed a little more space.”

Bruce’s scowl only deepened, but he was facing Clark now, looking at him curiously and there was a frightened little part of Clark that was aware of where this was going. But he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself.

Maybe over the last three weeks, he realized that he couldn’t keep dancing around the subject. Or maybe he was always going to end up outing himself eventually. Maybe this was fate. But it felt like he wasn’t in control of his body let alone his mouth anymore. It felt like he had no control at all.

That should terrify him. But strangely, it was a little like falling over the mouth of some unknown cave. Exhilarating.

“Why?”

Clark shrugged. It was his turn to look sheepishly at the floor. “Because I was starting to care too much, Bruce.”

“Care too much…”

Clark nodded, “Yes. And _that_ wasn’t fair to _you_. You needed a friend—not that. And I was having trouble separating the two when every night we’d end up—” Clark could feel that he was blushing furiously, he could feel that he was giving away so much, but there was no stopping it. It was just coming out of him without consent, “we ended up cuddling. And it—it got hard.”

“Hard.”

It seemed this conversation was going to be a lot of his words being parroted back at him. That was fine. It just made it all the easier to send him himself to hell faster. He swallowed thickly and nodded at Bruce.

_Shit, shit, shit._

“It got harder because I wanted to be more than that friend to you, Bruce.”

Bruce’s heart skipped then lurched quickly ahead. He hadn’t moved a muscle. His body was stalk-stiff, eyes on the floor, hands loose at his sides. But he didn’t even look like he was breathing. Clark wished he wasn’t aware of every micro-expression, every twitch, and change in blood pressure. But he was. Acutely. 

“Bruce?”

“You want more?”

“I—shit Bruce. I never thought I’d be having this conversation with you. I never—I didn’t want to lose you. We’ve been friends a long time and I—I, yes. I want more. Christ,” Clark rubbed his temples, feeling the ache in his skull growing by the second. This was not going as planned. Not at all. “I’ve wanted more for a long time.”

“You have?”

Clark laughed humorlessly, “Yes. Is that so hard to believe? You’re my best friend. You’re an attractive man. Put two and two together.”

“Yes,” Bruce blinked at him, expression unreadable, “It’s very hard to believe. I never thought you would ever be interested in someone like me. I’m—damaged goods.”

“What?”

“I’m damaged,” Bruce licked his lips, looking more nervous by the second, and it made Clark’s hands itch to grab him, to help in some way, “I’m not really good for anyone. And with you, it would be more than just physical. It would be a lot more and I didn’t think you’d ever—want me like that—I didn’t think—I didn’t think—”

“Bruce?”

Bruce sounded like he was starting to hyperventilate. More than concerned now, Clark quickly steered Bruce to a chair and helped him put his head between his knees. After a few cycles of breathing together, Bruce managed to sit up and look less like he was going to keel over. Instead of lily white, he was a listless sort of cream. Which was better than nothing.

“You see,” Bruce said weakly, still panting a little, “I’m a mess, Clark. You don’t want me.”

“Do you—” Clark couldn’t believe he was opening himself up to this, particularly after spending years doing his damnedest to hide it, “want me?”

There was something in Bruce’s eyes, something soft and vulnerable that had Clark’s heart leaping into his throat as Bruce quickly looked away and swallowed like it was painful. His face answered before his mouth did. “Yes.”

That one word, whispered and frightened, had the power to ruin Clark.

His chest ached at the confession.

And with the ache came a swarm of questions, possibilities, futures he’d thought would never, ever be possible and Clark knew he was getting ahead of himself—God, he knew that, but all of the sudden, very little else mattered. How could it? Bruce wanted him back. Even if nothing came of such a declaration, it felt like the world had been given to him.

It felt—incredible.

“I need time.”

Clark blinked back at Bruce, nodded. “Of course.” It was a struggle to think over his thrumming pulse and he had to physically reign himself in from lunging at Bruce. _That_ would not be appreciated.

“I don’t know—I don’t know how this is going to work and I’ve got baggage we haven’t talked about and there’s a lot—you don’t know about me.”

“Bruce—that’s alright. We don’t have to talk about that right now. Honestly, at the risk of looking like a fool, I’m just happy you’re even interested.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, “Interested is easy. There is very little about you that isn’t perfect. It’s the rest which will be hard.”

Bruce thought he was perfect?

_Breathe, Clark._

“I’m willing, Bruce. I’ve always been willing.”

Sunlight was pooling on the kitchen floor and down the sides of the cabinets. Silken gold on crème. They sat quietly for minutes, hours, Clark couldn’t be bothered to care. Mostly because, despite still kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, despite the gaping void between him and Bruce, there was the distinct tang of hope in the air.

“Be sure, Clark. Please—think about—”

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll fight you. I’ll push you away. I’ll hurt you.”

Clark nodded, “I imagine I’ll do the same. But I’m willing to try. I want you, Bruce.”

How the hell had they ended up here, with Clark confessing something like that? How? It didn’t really matter how. But it felt a little like a dream that might cruelly end at any moment.

“You shouldn’t.”

“I don’t always do what I should.”

Bruce shook his head, took Clark’s hand like it was the seal to a promise. Clark didn’t need to initiate the contact and it sent the happiness snaking into Clark’s middle to an all new high. He tried to temper it and control it. But it was almost impossible.

Bruce’s hand was warm and calloused. Like the man himself.

And Clark had never felt so light in his life. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to know what sort of things you can do for someone who has survived sexual abuse, particularly as a child, visit www.rainn.org. It's a great tool. 
> 
> "Your illness does not define you. Your strength and courage does."  
> -Unknown

Bruce and Clark had set their first date for Friday the 11th. 

It would likely be the strangest first date Bruce had ever been on. Especially as he planned on laying the groundwork for what was and was not expected in their relationship. Grace had been thrilled when he’d told her of their discussion in his kitchen on Sunday. She’d showered him with praise about his bravery and then promptly told him that he needed to start thinking of what he was and was not alright with.

That thought terrified him.

Emotionally, Bruce already felt very close to Clark. They’d shared secrets, dreams, and passions for years. That part of their friendship wouldn’t change much.

Physically, there were many boundaries that Bruce feared crossing.

What if all he saw was Uncle Philip? What if he couldn’t stop thinking about everything _before_ and he panicked? What if Clark got tired of the snail’s pace and gave up and then their friendship imploded as he’d feared from the beginning?

There were many what-ifs. Though, Grace did insist that he not dwell on them. He understood that they weren’t helpful. That didn’t stop them from bombarding him like a pack of hungry wolves.

He spent the next five days writing in his junk journal about what sort of things he wanted with Clark. Right at the top, was physical intimacy. It was also at the top of things that he was afraid of. Touching was fine, to some degree. He’d touched Clark many times. In training, sharing a bed, the casual hug. Those weren’t what frightened him. Though, they probably should be of some concern.

Maybe because now every touch would be layered with an intent that had not existed previously.

He wanted to kiss Clark.

To hold hands, go to movies, and sleep spooned as often as was allowed.

But he also wanted to experience what it might be like to be intimate with Clark. That would mean opening himself up to the possibility and honestly, the eventuality of having to face sex. And that was the crux of the problem, Bruce _wanted_ to have sex. He’d had sex before, of course with women, but he understood the mechanics of it. He understood, generally, how it might play out. But when he closed his eyes and tried to picture himself being okay with all the touching and the nakedness that went along with it—he panicked.

Admittedly, Bruce had gotten away with a minimal loss of clothing during sex previous. Most women he’d been with had been too drunk to realize he was taking off as little as possible. The rest—women like Talia—had only managed to add fuel to an already ugly fire. He despised being naked outside the confines of a shower.

And he kept that secret very close to the chest.

But Clark would, of course, must know. He’d have to know that Bruce didn’t like someone behind him that much. Sleeping was different, for some reason or another, but out in the room, around others or alone, there would be no backward hugging.

Bruce could already say with an almost certainty that he would not enjoy hair-pulling. His hair was a touchy subject. He had painful memories involved with a hand wound into it and forcing him to do things he’d rather never associate with Clark. Ever.

He would without a doubt react very badly to pain trying to be mixed into the bedroom. He would not like to be bound or held down. He’d always need access to his hands.

In fact, it might just be better if he was the one leading the whole encounter.

Except, Bruce was already well-aware of the fact he would likely be forced to bottom out of the two of them. He’d done his research, he knew Clark’s physiology and the mechanics of super-powered alien strength and how that might—complicate things. It terrified him. But there was a lot they could do that didn’t involve fully getting _involved_. At least, for a while.

Bruce knew there would be other things that bothered or frightened that he couldn’t anticipate, but he tried to narrow his focus down to the ones he knew for certain. And then he practiced like the manic-depression OCD fanatic he was, in front of his mirror for thirty minutes trying to figure out how to say it all to Clark.

It felt an awful lot like peeling himself open and then putting all of his ugly little secrets on display for viewing pleasure. A hideous sensation. 

The day of their date, Bruce called Grace in a panic about what he should wear. Honestly, he was very, very close to just canceling.

What if this was a mistake? What if he regretted trying this? 

She talked him off the ledge and told him it wasn’t about that at all. Then she reminded him that Clark already knew him and wasn’t expecting anything other than what he was. It would be better to go with his gut and dress accordingly. Dress as he would any other day of the week, with no particular focus on is appearance. 

It helped.

Minimally.

Bruce was still sweating through his Henley and could feel his pulse thundering in his ears when Clark showed up. He still smiled awkwardly and fumbled a little when Clark took his hand right when he got in the door.

Though holding hands was really incredibly nice. Clark’s hands were just the right amount bigger than his that he didn’t feel dwarfed, but he also had a good bit to hold. And Clark was always so warm. Like touching heated steel. It had the effect of making him want to lean closer, press nearer, soak up more of whatever it was that made him feel like that.

An hour into dinner, Bruce felt himself relaxing, bit by bit until he could force food into his mouth and not feel like vomiting. Alfred made risotto and it tasted especially good with the wine he’d paired.

He’d been trying not to skimp on meals, even if he wasn’t hungry. He’d gained back five whole pounds. A small celebration as far as Alfred was concerned.

“I’ve missed you,” Clark murmured around a mouthful of food, keeping his gaze averted, “Is that alright to say?”

_Always._ But Bruce couldn’t say that out loud. It would be too forward.

Bruce tried a smile and prayed he didn’t look constipated, “Yes. That’s—I’ve missed you too.”  
Clark’s returning smile was infectious and released more tension from Bruce’s hands and neck, his shoulders. “It’s been so busy at the Planet. I almost didn’t think Perry would let me leave. Lois has been chewing me out all week about not meeting my deadlines.”

“You’re behind at work?”

“Not really,” Clark waved a hand dismissively, “It’s nothing new. Being Superman means I get called away at a moment’s notice and then I have work that piles up on my desk. I always get the articles in on time, however, under the wire, it scrapes. But it can get a little crazy sometimes.”

“I could talk to Perry, get him to cut you some slack.”

“You do that, and I’d have to kill you.”

Bruce smirked, “You? Resort to physical violence? Please.”

Clark rolled his eyes, “I’d do something you wouldn’t like. And you know it.”

The laugh surprised Bruce as it bubbled up out of his chest, but it was as warm as the feeling in the dining room. And it was so, so welcome. This wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be. This wasn’t that hard at all. “I’m shaking in my boots.”

Clark mocked being affronted, then wiped his mouth with his napkin, “Harsh.”

“Accurate. You couldn’t threaten if your life depended upon it. It just isn’t in you.”

And Bruce wouldn’t change that for the world. He liked that Clark was soft and sweet even though he really didn’t need to be. He could be exactly the opposite of what he was. But he wasn’t. Clark was as honest and faithful as he was alien by blood. It was simply a part of who he was.

“I don’t think I could eat another bite.”

Bruce agreed, “Do you want—to talk in the study? Or we could go for a walk?”

Clark studied him a moment then shrugged, “A walk would be nice. Temperature is pretty mild right now.”

“I’d like that.”

The wind had picked up since earlier in the afternoon when Bruce had last been outside and it tugged at their hair and clothes, like fingers combing through yarn. Bruce was glad that Clark had picked walking as it might help clear his mind and loosen his tongue. He always thought more cohesively when he was moving. Perhaps that would help.

They were holding hands again like it was normal. Like they did it every day and that was a starting place that Bruce was pleased to say caused him no fear whatsoever.

“We should probably lay some ground rules, Clark.”

Clark stopped them at the property line, where the landscape got a little wild as it dipped down to the jagged rocks and pebbled beach. “I’ll respect whatever boundaries you need, Bruce.”

“Alright,” Bruce copied Clark and stared at the surf, took in big lungful of salty brine air that made him feel grounded to the air at the same time as light as a feather. He swayed a little in the wind, letting it tug him forward and backward, praying that everything he wanted to convey would get across. “I should start by telling you that I’ve never been with a man before.”

Clark’s gaze flickered to him, then back to the horizon, “Okay.”

“I know you’ve got experience with both men and women. But I have never been willing to risk getting involved before.”

“Because of your baggage.”

“Yes. I—you already know that I’ve got scars from things that happened to me as a child and though I’ve hinted at it and you, you know to some degree—I need to tell you—I should tell you—” he fell quiet, voice dying off into a choked whisper. If Clark were not superhuman, he would not have heard Bruce’s next words. Because Bruce could hardly hear them himself above the wind and his thundering heart. “I was sexually abused as a boy,” God, it sounded awful out loud. It sounded grotesque and ugly.

_Because it was._

It had been so many years since he’d been willing to say it like that and it felt like being raked up the back with hot coals, “I—it was—”

Clark’s hand tightened in his, but his eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, like he was struggling not to look, but Bruce was so grateful that he wasn’t being watched as he fell apart, that he forced himself to stumble along.

One more sentence, two maybe, and he’d have enough out.

“My Uncle Philip was the man who did it. Alfred didn’t know till I—I got home. And I went to some therapy. He got—He was charged. He served probation. No jail t-t-time. And I—I’ve---I’ve tried not to think—of him. At all. And I don’t tell anyone. And—”

“Bruce,” Clark had turned and was frowning down at him, his eyes filmed in what could only be tears but it was hard to see because Bruce was pretty sure he was blinking up through his own. “I’m so sorry.”

A few more sentences and he’d have the rest out. He’d get it out and Clark would finally know. He’d understand.

“I—I wanted you to know. Because it will—will affect everything between us. Because I want you,” Bruce whispered, clutching at Clark’s hand tighter, feeling foolish that he couldn’t control the stutter shaking his voice, “I want to have it all with you. But I’m—I’m scared. And we’ll have to go slow. Very s-slow.”

Clark nodded, looking away as he swiped at a cheek. But his cheeks were still wet, and Bruce would never forget seeing his best friend cry for him. He’d never forget this moment of shared grief because it was different than what he imagined it would be.

He’d thought he would feel shame.

Worse, he had thought Clark might look at him and maybe feel disgust? Pity? He wasn’t sure, but nothing like now. Nothing like the look Clark was giving him now. One that soothed and comforted. One that looked righteously angry on his behalf.

“We can go as slow or as fast as you want, Bruce. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Even if we can’t have sex—ever?”

Clark laughed, “Not that many days ago, I had consigned myself to a fate much worse. So, no. I won’t be going anywhere, because this—this is worth it to me. It will always be worth it to me.”

There was no possible way this could be real. Or that Clark could even be. Men like him did not exist. They simply did not.

“I don’t deserve this.”

“Why not?” Clark’s voice had the smallest bite to it, the tightening at the corners of his eyes a warning. “Why don’t you deserve this?”

“Because—I just,” Bruce shrugged, unable to voice it, “I don’t know.”

“Then you’ll just have to trust that I know what I’m doing. Because I do know. And I’m not leaving. I’m not running. I’m not spooking. I’ll do whatever you want, Bruce. You say the speed and the time, and the place, and I’ll be there every time. I always will. But don’t ever think that you don’t deserve this. Because by God, do you ever.”

Did he? Bruce wasn’t sure. But Clark was. And maybe he just needed to trust Clark.

Clark wasn’t kidding about moving at Bruce’s pace. They were dating a solid month before Bruce brought up kissing and asked if they might try it. Sure, it wasn’t romantic in the least to need to discuss something as simple as a kiss beforehand, but Bruce was eternally grateful that it was Clark he had to discuss these things with.

He brought it up after patrol, on a night when Clark had offered to sleep over and since Clark was already there and they’d already planned on being close…Bruce felt like it might be a good time to try. And to be perfectly honest, he’d thought of little else for the last month.

He had no reason to think that kissing Clark would be frightening. Clark agreed to keep his hands to himself, to not touch along with the kissing, at least to start, and Clark was a man of his word.

Still, Bruce was near buzzing with nervous energy when they walked up to his bedroom and changed into pajamas for bed. When Bruce finished brushing his teeth and came out of the bathroom, he found Clark seated at the end of the bed, waiting. He was wearing a DPD sweatshirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that looked achingly familiar from all their nights together at the start of this.

He looked very, very inviting.

Bruce could let himself look now. He could let himself study without the fear of being caught and it was a heady feeling to know that Clark was looking too. They stared at each for long breaths, their eyes painting lines on each other, bodies immobile. It was likely one of the most intimate moments Bruce had ever shared with another human being. And they weren’t even touching. 

When he sat on the end of the bed beside Clark, left thigh brushing Clark’s right, his stomach curled pleasantly, and his pulse ticked up a few more notches.

All normal good things. Signs of attraction. 

Clark smiled at him, crinkles spanning the corners of his eyes in one of his rare smiles. The softest kind, that was reserved for the people he loved. And Bruce felt that love before their mouths even touched.

Clark moved slow as if to give Bruce a chance to move at any point. His lips brushed Bruce’s, so very lightly he almost didn’t feel it, then slowly added more pressure till Bruce startled himself by humming out a happy sigh of pleasure.

Then the kiss quite literally seemed to melt. And Bruce melted right along with it.

No hands, no touching, but Clark kissed with purpose. With feeling. His lips were soft and warm, warm as the rest of him and he tasted like Bruce’s toothpaste. Bruce wanted more.

_More, more, more._

The sudden feverish want was so strong, so overpowering that he didn’t realize he’d climbed into Clark’s lap, his hands gripping with bruising strength at Clark’s shoulders till Clark made a choked sound in the back of his throat.

Then he froze.

And he—he didn’t panic. Not exactly. But he did dart off Clark’s lap and back up till he hit a wall. Which was better than running out of the bedroom altogether, he supposed. But not by much.

“Holy hell, Bruce,” Clark managed after a few moments and Bruce sagged into the wall.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? That was amazing. You kiss—you kiss like a fucking Rockstar.”

That surprised a snort out of Bruce, then a laugh which quickly devolved into an almost sob. “I—I didn’t mean to—I reacted stronger than I was expecting.”

“That’s okay. It’s—it’s very flattering.”

Bruce hugged his arms around his middle and closed his eyes, worked on slowing his breathing back to a normal speed. “I’ve never felt like this.”

“That can be a good thing.”

“You make me feel out of control. When I climbed on top of you, I don’t even remember doing that.”

“I’ll be honest and say I didn’t mind. I would very much like you to do it again.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, he cracked open an eye and studied Clark, “Of course you would. But that doesn’t change the fact that had we gone further, I would have undoubtedly panicked and then regretted it.”

“It’ll get better. It’s all new right now and there’s a lot of strong feelings going into this. I imagine feeling out of control is pretty normal even in a more typical scenario.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious, Bruce,” Clark smiled, teeth so white they should be bleached, but weren’t. “Now, you still okay with me staying? Because I can leave if you aren’t.”

“No, I’m okay with it.”

“Great,” Clark grinned, then patted the bed, “Ready?”

As he would ever be.

Kissing Bruce became a ritual.

Clark kissed him chaste and soft right when they first saw each other, even if they were in front of Damian or Timothy and this was always rewarded with a shy smile, one he’d never seen on Bruce’s face before. It was addicting.

So, every chance he had, Clark took advantage. He pressed when Bruce’s eyes said it was alright to and gobbled up the bits of affection like he was a starving succubus. The more they kissed, the easier it was to imagine more and the less Bruce stiffened or tensed. 

He kissed Bruce lazily first thing in the morning if he stayed overnight and quietly desperate just before bed.

He kissed him hello and goodbye. Just because. After breakfast or a cup of coffee when the taste still clung richly to Bruce’s lips and made him feel absurdly romantic.

If they were going to rate their relationship just off how satisfying their kissing-life was, Clark would give it five stars. He was content with what Bruce was willing to give and quietly pleased that each time they kissed, it was different, longer, more intimate. Simply more.

Touching was a different story altogether. Touching had been—difficult. Probably because it was a whole different avenue. It implied a destination that Clark was well aware frightened Bruce to no end. Though Clark had said a good handful of times that he’d never push Bruce for sex. Never. That didn’t particularly help. 

Touching brought up other emotions, both good and bad. And Bruce was reluctant to bring touching into the mix with the kissing. Clark was in no rush to do so himself, no matter how nice the idea of adding in some petting might be. He didn’t want to go back or to see the flickers of distrust in Bruce’s eyes turn to fear. They could easily do so. He could feel that as easily as he could feel the love between them growing. Steadily increasing, just like their kisses, day by day. A sunflower turning its face to the sun and inching upwards.

He smiled more at work. He laughed more at JLA meetings and people noticed. He and Bruce weren’t public, nor did Clark really care if they ever were, but everywhere he went, the lightness in his eyes garnered attention.

Even Alfred had commented on how good it was to see Clark so very happy.

Clark wished he could say the same for Bruce.

Because although things were moving at a steady, welcome, pace, they were also bringing up memories, flashbacks, or fears. They were unearthing things Bruce hadn’t needed to deal with about his history, until now. And there was nothing to be done about that.

Clark could only hope that Bruce would be honest about his limits.

It was one of those rare nights where Bruce seemed so relaxed he was like putty in Clark’s arms. Clark’s kept his hands to himself but he was allowed to hold Bruce. Which was good, because if he wasn’t, Clark wasn’t sure what the hell he’d do with his hands. Probably rip the sheets in half.

Bruce was warm and urgent against his mouth, just on the side of desperate and the longer they kissed, the more Clark started to let himself slip. The more he forgot how in control he needed to be at all times.

And he touched Bruce. Just a hand, one hand on the small of Bruce’s back where his shirt was riding up and it was like being struck with a cattle prod.

Bruce lurched backward, stumbling out of their hold, flying across the mattress. His back hit the headboard and Clark immediately got off the bed and moved across the room.

That was all it took. One hand, one careless moment, one iota of _too much_ and every bit of faith Bruce put into Clark shriveled. Bruce was panting, eyes wide and frightened, hands clutching manically at the headboard, but he hadn’t moved.

And Clark—God, Clark didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to take that look away. He never wanted to see it again but he knew he would. He knew that was what he’d signed on for when he’d told Bruce he could handle it. That he wanted to handle this.

But it still cut something soft and fragile in his chest and burned him viscerally.

“I’m sorry.”

Bruce blinked at him, clearly forcing his hands to loosen on the frame, “It’s—It’s fine. I’m sorry I overreacted.”

“No,” Clark shook his head, still staying far away, “You didn’t overreact. I surprised you. I touched you without permission. I’m sorry.”

“It shouldn’t be like that,” Bruce whispered, his face so pale he looked ghostly, “I shouldn’t panic like that. What if we—what if we can’t—and I want,” he cut himself off, took several breaths in a pattern that sounded rehearsed then locked eyes with Clark, “I want you. I still want you, Clark.”

“Okay,” Clark couldn’t help that his voice came out weak and frail. He couldn’t help that he didn’t sound entirely convinced of it. How could it? He’d touched Bruce. Barely grazed his skin and the man had been terrified of him.

How did they move on from that?

The next therapy appointment with Grace, Clark came too.

He sat quietly listening to Grace’s suggestions, to the way she spoke to Bruce and how Bruce focused on her with rapt attention. And he felt—a little better. A little more hopeful.

If Grace thought it was possible, maybe it was. If she thought they weren’t a lost cause, maybe they weren’t. He wanted to believe her. Clark wanted Grace to be right about them.

Two months into dating, Clark and Bruce were assigned a touching exercise by Grace. Nonsexual touching. Clark was supposed to give Bruce a massage, clothes on, but with most areas of his body being available to touch. Bruce was supposed to use a safe word, in case he panicked. He, of course, chose the word red. Red meant to stop. Red was easy to remember, and Clark approved.

On the night in question, they were both nervous wrecks. Bruce changed into shorts and a tank top laid down on his bed and waited patiently for Clark to work up the nerve to go over and start touching. It should have been laughable that something as simple as a massage terrified both Batman and Superman. It wasn’t.

If anything, it was a very somber affair.

Clark started with Bruce’s neck, keeping the pressure light and slow. He dug gently into the muscle, fanning his fingers on the skin, feeling the heat of the blood rushing beneath him. Bruce held himself rigidly still but didn’t say the word red and didn’t run. Clark counted it as a win and moved to his shoulders.

_Baby steps. Little by little. Build trust and the rest will come._ Grace’s words whispered in the back of Clark’s mind and he let them soothe his frantic pulse.

Bruce had sculpted muscles. Long and lean. Disciplined muscle growth from so many hours of training and patrols. It was fascinating to run his fingers along the grooves in his deltoids, to study the play of them beneath the skin when Bruce twitched or tensed.

Fifteen minutes in, Clark had only moved to Bruce’s midback and Bruce was finally starting to relax into the touches. His breathing had slowed, pulse and blood pressure dropping with it. The feeling of touching, no matter that it wasn’t sexual in the least, was making Clark feel a little drugged. And he was loath to ever stop. It felt too damn good.

He could do this every night. And it seemed like, Bruce might feel the same.

He dug his thumbs gently into Bruce’s low back, pressing the muscles into submission, earning him a soft groan that made Clark immediately flushed with heat. A harmless little noise but one he’d never really heard come from Bruce before and he was abruptly greedy for more. But Bruce tensed up when Clark paused, and Clark had to rush to calm him, afraid Bruce would want him to stop.

He really, really didn’t want this to end so quickly.

“It’s okay. You can make noises.”

“I—I hadn’t planned on it, Clark.”

“I like it.”

“Christ,” Bruce murmured, the tips of his ears going red.

“Can I keep going?”

A nod. That was all he was going to get. That was fine with Clark.

Bruce turned his bed, buried it into a pillow, but didn’t move. With the go-ahead still on the table, Clark delved back in and kept massaging. He avoided Bruce’s backside, careful to keep clear, though it was ultimately very tempting to touch, and started again at the backs of his legs. Bruce’s hamstrings felt like a rock but after a few more minutes of massaging, they too went lax.

Bruce groaned here and there. All buried by the pillow. Clark still heard it all. Got high off of it.

He worked over those long calves and then the arches of Bruce’s feet. Bruce went so floppy when he dug into his insteps that Clark had to pause and make sure the man was even still breathing. When he finished, Clark moved back up to Bruce’s head, sitting with enough space to be respectful though he desperately wanted to cling. Bruce’s hand found him clumsily and Clark smiled down at the sleepy gray eyes that opened and finally looked at him.

“Good?”

“Very. I’m thinking this should be a regular thing.”

“Haven’t you ever had a massage before?”

Bruce lifted a brow, “I don’t usually like to be touched. So, no.”

“Can I touch your hair?” Clark asked softly, resting a hand nearby in an attempt to be inviting. He just hoped it didn’t look pushy. He was already feeling a little spoiled from all the touching. But of course, all the selfish parts of his brain were chanting _more, more, more._

“Yes. Just no—no pulling.”

Clark frowned, “I wouldn’t want to,” he reached out tentatively, brushed the hair off Bruce’s forehead, combed his fingers into the obsidian silk of it, and hummed happily. It was as soft as it looked. He’d been wondering for years.

“Touching me like this shouldn’t make you so goddamn happy, Clark. It’s pitiful.”

“Why would you say that?”

“It makes me feel like shit.”

“What?” Clark frowned at him, still toying with the pieces, lost in the feel of Bruce’s hair on his fingertips, “Why? I like touching you. In any way you like it. You shouldn’t feel bad about anything.”

“Well, I do. You wouldn’t be this desperate for touch if you were with someone else.”

Clark paused, “I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else. Just you, Bruce. So that’s a moot argument.”

“I—” Bruce swallowed, half-hiding his face again in the pillows, “I don’t have the faintest idea of why you are with me.”

“You don’t have to know everything.”

Bruce snort was muffled, “Fair enough.”

For the next ten minutes, Clark played with Bruce’s hair. He made tiny braids, tickled the soft downy pieces at Bruce’s nape, and silently memorized the feel of it just like he’d memorized the rest of Bruce. Bruce didn’t seem to mind any of it and Clark was so overwhelmed with gratitude and love that it was a little like being drunk.

He said what came to mind. Something that should have been harmless.

It was not.

“You’re beautiful, Bruce.”

Any semblance of peace or comfort between them fizzled away abruptly.

Bruce stiffened, his entire frame going so rigid that Clark jerked his hand back and got off the bed. Even though Bruce had said nothing. He was still silent, still frozen, his eyes locked on a point, not in this bedroom. Clark felt like his skin was crawling from that look alone. Haunted, broken, frightened. 

“You can’t—you can’t call me that. I don’t—don’t call me that.”

“Beautiful?”

Bruce nodded, his eyes slipping closed, breath whistling through his teeth as he obviously tried to calm himself. “He always called me that. Always. I can’t hear it and not—not think of him.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t ever say it again.”

“It’s okay. You didn't know,” Bruce blinked out of his fog, pushing to all fours then sitting, “Come back. Please.”

“You sure?”

He nodded briskly, “Yes. Come back. I want you next to me.”

“If you’re sure, Bruce,” Clark hesitated, watching closely for signs of panic as he drifted back over to the bed, but none came. When Clark sat next to him, hip to hip, Bruce dutifully turned his chin up, raising his mouth to Clark’s in invitation and despite the little tremors that were skating down the man’s frame, he seemed determined to move on. Which Clark had to be determined as well.

It made Clark hopeful again. Recklessly so.

He kissed Bruce chastely, lingered for a handful of seconds, then drew back to look at him.

“Can I call you handsome?”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”

“Sexy?”

Bruce smirked, “Yes.”

“Finger-licking good?”

Bruce chuckled, “Not outside of this bedroom, or I’ll deny I ever said you could. But yes. Just not the other one. Not—”

“I know,” Clark rubbed a thumb over Bruce’s lips, then stole one more kiss, “What about gorgeous?”

“Seriously, Clark?”

“Seriously.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man."
> 
> "The course of true love never did run smooth."
> 
> -William Shakespeare

_red._

_Red._

_RED._

_“Shhh, keep quiet. We don’t anyone finding out, yeah?”_

_“Good boy. Such a good boy.”_

_rEd._

_“Hold still, yes, just like that. Be a good boy for Uncle, just—yeah—just relax.”_

_RED, RED, RED!_

_“Quiet. Stop moving, Bruce.”_

_RED!!_

_“Beautiful. So beautiful.”_

_“God, yes.”_

_REDDDD!!_

“Bruce, baby, you gotta wake up. Wake up!”

Bruce came awake screaming the word red. It tore past his vocal chords in a hoarse plea, shredding the vision of a bedroom he hadn’t seen in nearly thirty years. Hard paneled walls, one lamp with glittering beads on the lampshade. Navy quilt and white sheets. Sailboats. Everywhere.

Bruce hadn’t set foot on a sailboat since he was eight years old. He likely never would again.

_Not real._

Reality argued with the dream, struggled futilely to beat it back into the ether where it belonged. But Bruce couldn’t stop seeing that bedroom. He couldn’t stop seeing sailboats on his walls.

Precious seconds slipped by in the following silence. Cloying, thick like honey, suffocating. Bruce couldn’t tell up from down or left from right. It wasn’t—he wasn’t—

Awake.

He _was_ awake.

RED.

It was like being tossed in a frigid bath and when he finally managed to force his brain to recognize the bedroom and the familiarity of the person sitting next to him, the panic that was lancing beneath his breastbone, flaying him alive, was more powerful than any he’d had in a long, long, while.

It wasn’t going away. It wasn’t fading. 

“Red,” Bruce roughly got the word out past chattering teeth and the rush of tears. Then watched helplessly as Clark froze on their bed, his hands immediately fleeing from Bruce’s shoulders, severing the contact. But that wasn’t what Bruce wanted.

Clark didn’t understand. He needed the dream to end. Red was for Uncle Phillip. It was for the phantom touches that wouldn’t stop making his skin crawl. For the pain that no eight-year-old should feel that made him feel sick to his stomach. Red was for that. Not Clark. Never Clark.

Clark could be across the room and it wouldn’t be enough. Not enough space.

Clark didn’t understand. How could he? No one did.

_Can’t breathe. Oh God, RED!_

Everything was still dark. It had to be night, probably the middle of it but Bruce couldn’t see because Clark hadn’t turned on any lights yet.

But he needed to see. Now.

He knew logically, somewhere in his still functioning brain, that if he saw Uncle Philip wasn’t in the room, it might stem the waterfall of terror clinging to his every joint. But it was a struggle even to speak normally. His lips were numb and fat, body rigid.

“I n-n-need lights.”

Clark moved in a blur, both bedside lamps switching on almost immediately and burning away the scrabbling darkness, forcefully casting the shadows back to their corners. But Bruce still felt cold. He still felt frozen in the mess he’d made of the sheets and the sticky sweat that was holding his clothes tight to his skin. And he couldn’t move.

The fear was overwhelming.

“Red,” Bruce said again because it felt like the only word he could say. Like it was the only thing he knew how to say to make it stop. It was supposed to mean _make it stop_. He just didn’t know how to voice that.

And it was supposed to work, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t working. He needed Cark to fix this. Someone. Anyone.

He couldn’t make the dream leave. Uncle Philip was still in the room, leaning over him, his sweat dripping on bare skin and his weight stifling till it compressed Bruce’s lungs and made each breath a struggle of survival. Hands, there were hands on his skin, over his legs and buttocks. Smooth hands. Businessman's hands.

Pressure where it didn’t belong, expensive cologne and fingernails that dug into pale innocent skin.

And the safe word wasn’t working. Red—it was supposed to work. “R-r-red,” Bruce whispered again, forcing his jaw to unlock, scrunching his eyes closed.

But it felt like being split into two halves, one in the present and the other in the past, Bruce couldn’t make himself fully cognizant of the fact that the safe word was just a word. It could not banish Philip’s memory any more than his weekly therapy sessions could.

This wasn’t real. God, he wished he could make his mind believe that.

“Bruce, I’m here for you. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Bruce blinked open his eyes, sluggishly found the owner of the voice and was surprised to see the face was not Uncle Philip.

Clark.

Clark was here.

“Clark,” Bruce croaked, throat on fire as he swallowed the terror down, one breath at a time. “Clark, I n-n-need you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Y-yes.”

“If you say red, I have to go.”

Bruce nodded quickly, reaching blindly into the space between them, desperate for something real and solid to break through the final wall. When Clark grabbed on, the callouses beneath the pads of his fingers began to fracture the false reality. That hands were not smooth. The smells were not expensive. The skin was not slicked with sweat. It was warm and dry.

_SAFE._

Clark’s smell—Dial soap and laundry detergent split it.

Clark’s warmth, his voice, soft and deep—shattered the last of it.

Bruce sucked in a breath when the terror finally receded and then jerked a fist to his mouth to stifle a sob. Clark said nothing. He didn’t try to touch more than his hand. He didn’t try to offer flimsy words of comfort or false promises.

He just remained. He sat through the worst of Bruce’s meltdown and when it was over, he slid back around Bruce and became a shield. Bruce didn’t fall back asleep. He was too afraid of what might lurk within the dark folds of it. But he wasn’t alone, and he wasn’t with Philip.

He had Clark.

Progress was a fickle thing.

Sometimes it looked like none was being made, the steps were simply too small to see. Occasionally, progress didn’t look like progress at all. It looked like moving backward. It looked like stalling out and being stuck at the side of the road. It looked—ugly.

Clark had been learning over the last several months, that progress could be painful. And not just for the person who struggled but for their supports. It could be so slow that it made you want to scream. It could be good, heady even when steps were made in the right direction.

Or feel like the worst thing imaginable.

Clark and Bruce weathered a series of terrible nightmares for a solid week before they let up.

Each night when Bruce woke, he woke screaming their safe word red or bellowing Clark’s name. The pain of hearing the man he loved in such a blind fear, was absolute. Clark had never experienced such heartache before. Every time, Bruce woke in a fit of terror, unable to distinguish what was real and what was not. It took hours to get back to a place of normality and after Bruce was so exhausted, he would hide the following day. He would want to be alone and Clark would give it to him.

Clark silently willed himself to stretch a little further.

To give a little more. To bend till it was so uncomfortable, he feared breaking. He feared not being able to give Bruce what he needed. He feared failure.

And then, like seeing the sun slip into view after a terrific storm, there was progress again. There was movement forward and Clark was reminded that progress didn’t always look the way one might expect. Progress was a fickle but beautiful thing. 

He was more than a little relieved when they made it out on the other side of the rash of nightmares.

Bruce began to sleep through the night again and with Grace’s help in adjusting medications, they slogged on in the trenches. Bruce bumped up his sessions to twice a week for a month. In that time, he seemed to gain back his confidence and with it, his interest in moving their relationship forward.

They’d been officially dating for five months. It was the longest relationship Clark had ever had without sexual intimacy and it was without a doubt, the most rewarding if not trying one he’d been involved in.

There was a part of Clark that was very much concerned about pushing too much too soon and going backward. He had no interest in struggling through another rash of nightmares like the month previous. Or losing the ability to kiss Bruce for days on end, because it brought up too many ugly recollections.

But Bruce was determined. And when he was determined, little stood in his way. Even Clark. 

At Grace’s suggestion, they graduated to laying in the dark with just their underwear on.

Lying mostly naked, side by side, holding hands would have looked odd to anyone else. But Clark was beginning to think there was something tremendously grounding and special about the experience. He liked listening to Bruce’s heartbeat and the steady cadence of his breath. He liked knowing that Bruce was thinking about him too. That the subtle twisting of their fingers and the brushing of their thighs was something so very intimate, no one else had dared to do so with Bruce before.

Bruce hadn’t let them.

Two weeks in, Bruce started to touch more in the dark. He would trace Clark’s veins, murmuring softly about his day. Asking about Clark’s. They would share the darkness and the nearness, and everything would become so hazy, the outside world did not exist. Nightmares were nothing. Shadows were banished.

Uncle Philip was a thing of the past that had no place between them.

Clark treasured every stolen second.

When Bruce’s weekly therapy with Grace rolled around and Bruce asked Clark to come with, Clark thought nothing of it. He’d been to several sessions and each was very helpful in being a better partner and in helping Bruce the best way possible. Grace was amazingly adept at suggestions and insight.

She was a Godsend.

But Clark was still a little stunned when Bruce leaned forward during his session, fingers laced between his knees and blurted out, “I want to have sex. I think I’m ready.”

“What makes you think that, Bruce?” Grace asked calmly, her eyes thoughtful and soft.

Clark remained frozen, unsure of his place in the conversation. Bruce hadn’t shared such sentiments with him till right this moment. And although he was a little frightened at the prospect of screwing things up—there was also a great deal of excitement that bubbled up reminding him he’d been incredibly patient for months on end. That he’d been lying next to Bruce every night for weeks and kept his own temptations locked away tight.

That he was just a man. A man who wanted the other man sitting next to him with a ferocity that would likely scare Bruce if he knew.

Having Bruce outright say he wanted sex. That he was _ready_ for sex? Made Clark want to crow off the top of a roof. _“My boyfriend wants to have sex with me!”_

It was a struggle to draw his mind back to focus on the task at hand. And not on everything he wanted to do to Bruce’s body given half a chance.

Besides, Bruce would need to go slow. Logic dictated that. He would likely not be able to do what Clark wanted to do for a long, long time. So, he needed to keep that surge of need he was feeling tamped down. He needed to keep it down tight.

“What do you think, Clark? Are you ready?”

Clark blinked up, saw Bruce and Grace staring at him, then cleared his throat roughly, “I uh—yes. Of course. Whenever Bruce is ready, I’m ready.”

Grace nodded, “That’s a sweet standpoint to take. But I’d prefer if you were as honest as possible. Are you sure you’re ready? Nothing about going forward will be the usual. It will take a lot of self-control and patience. Can you do that?”

Clark frowned, shrugging a shoulder, “I think so, yes.”

“That’s better. You two can take this however you want. But I’m going to suggest you do this in stages, just like we’ve done everything else.”

Bruce was back to leaning forward, his brows furrowed, eyes fixed on Grace. He looked like the perfect student listening to his favorite teacher. Clark did his best to mirror that attentiveness. It was a fight with his brain rushing off paths of what this might look like between them. How it would change things, hopefully, for the better.

“How has the lying unclothed in the dark been going for you, Bruce?”

“Good.”

“No concerns?”

Bruce shook his head, “I’m very comfortable with it. I look forward to doing it whenever we have the chance.”

Clark felt his mouth twitch into a smile as warmth swarmed his chest.

“Excellent. I’d like you to move on to lying in the dark naked, side by side, minimal touching. Just get used to that first. Once you feel ready, add a little more touching and see where it goes. It would be best to take this as slow as possible. Bruce, if you feel more comfortable touching with the lights on, then do that. You could even add a nightlight at first if that works better. We’ve discussed how vulnerable you feel when naked and that being a problem. Sex is a naked act, as well you know. You need to be fully comfortable with the idea of being naked in front of Clark before moving on.”

“I—” Bruce swallowed, his eyes flickering down to his shoes, “I can do that.”

Grace smiled and it was absolutely maternal. “You can. And once you’ve mastered those feelings, we can talk about the next step.”

“Which would be?” Clark couldn’t help from asking. He didn’t want to appear too eager, but he was. Naked was a big step but what came after? Clark would be lying if he said he wasn’t dying to know.

Grace’s eyes were like silver pools of honey. Warm and knowing, understanding shining so strongly it made Clark ache. “Then you can see about pleasuring each other separately. I would suggest trying to orgasm side by side. Then moving on to helping each other do that. After that, we can discuss how far you both are willing to go. And what that might look like for Bruce in particular. Certain things may be too frightening. They may never be possible at all.”

“I want it,” Bruce broke in, jaw flexing angrily, “I want to go all the way. Everything. I want it all with Clark. And if—if we go slow—it should be possible, right?”

Grace tipped her head, “Anything is possible, Bruce. But if you go too fast, too soon, you may do far more damage. Remember how far you’ve come. Look back and see all the progress. You are sitting next to Clark with no tension in your body whatsoever. When we first started having Clark in session, you were anxious and stressed. You didn’t like sharing information in front of him, let alone discussing sexual intimacy and how far you might go. Now, look at you.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched a near smile. “I remember.”

“Good. Now, let’s discuss a few other minor details. Just some upkeep. How is your sleep?”

“Much better.”

“No nightmares this week?”

“None,” Bruce confirmed, one hand snaking out from the clasp of his knees to find Clark. Clark gladly wound their fingers together and felt more of that blessed warmth fill his chest. It made him feel near to bursting.

“How about self-harm? Any thoughts?”

“None lately. And I’ve been feeling—less depressed overall. I’ve had bad days like I usually do. But it’s all improving. I don’t notice too many side effects with the dosage increase in my Buspirone either.”

Grace jotted down some notes, pausing, “Eating?”

“Twice a day. I’m working on three times.”

Grace shrugged a shoulder, “You look healthy and it shows. I’m happy with your progress.” 

Progress—that word again. Always lingering, always hiding in the shadows.

“Did you two have anything else you’d like to discuss before our hour is up?”

Bruce’s hand squeezed Clark’s, “No. I don’t think so.”

Grace smiled pleasantly, the turquoise earrings she was wearing tinkling as she nodded, “Then you have your marching orders. I will see you next week, Bruce. Or sooner, if you need me. You only need to call.”

Marching orders made it sound like what they were going to be doing would be clinical.

It was not.

The first night Bruce and Clark stripped fully naked and laid down on the bed, Bruce had to do some deep breathing exercises to center himself. It wasn’t much of a change. Not really at all. But he still struggled with the prospect of being fully naked beside another man, equally so. He reminded himself it was Clark.

Clark kept up a steady stream of nonsensical conversation and when the timer they’d set went off, they got dressed and went to bed. It was much easier to touch and to kiss with clothing on. Bruce couldn’t understand the entire logic behind it, but it frustrated him just the same.

The fourth night, Bruce tried touching Clark’s hand. Holding it tightly. It was a step in the right direction, though it felt pitifully small and made Bruce aggravated with how little it was. He wanted more.

He was tired of fighting his mind as his body felt desperate for more. Just more. He wanted to touch and to take and to feel without anything getting in the way of.

Day eight of lying naked, Bruce struggled more than any day before with anxiety. And that infuriated him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be such a fucking struggle just to lie next to the man he loved. It wasn’t.

He struggled in silence for so long, body stiff and heart skittering about in his chest, that Clark finally said something.

“Bruce, if this is too much, we can stop. Remember what Grace said about going slow.”

“I know. Just—give me another few minutes. I’m fine.”

“Alright.”

It got, minutely better. Given another handful of minutes, Bruce had found Clark’s hand and they were lying pressed almost flush at the sides. Bruce wasn’t panicking anymore but he could better. It wasn’t unpleasant, but neither was it pleasant. He was still too anxious.

“How about a nightlight?”

“I don’t—I don’t know if I want you to see me yet.”

Clark inhaled softly, rolling halfway towards Bruce till Bruce could feel the heat radiating off of Clark’s skin towards his own. It would take very little to close the gap between them and kiss. Touch. “But you could see _me_. Then you could know it’s just me. I could keep my eyes closed.”

Bruce snorted, a ridiculous wave of laughter wanting to escape. “You’d lay there with your eyes closed for me?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Well,” Bruce considered a moment, then finally agreed. Being able to see who was beside him, might help quell some of the anxiety. And he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t want to see Clark, all of him. He’d enough fantasies to fill a novel. “Fine. Yes, let’s do it.”

With an unspoken agreement, Clark rolled onto his back and waited. Bruce got up, flipped on the bathroom light so it spilled into the bedroom, half-lighting the bed in yellow streaks, then carefully strode back to his spot on the mattress.

He underestimated what seeing Clark on their bed naked would do to him.

But it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad at all. Quite the opposite.

Bruce’s heart launched into his throat as he crawled up the mattress. Clark’s eyes were closed, as he’d promised, but Bruce was looking. And he was looking his fill.

Long, long limbs, but not bulky. Clark was finely hewn, his musculature like a symphony beneath his unmarked skin. Skin which was darker than Bruce’s, warmer looking and infinitely soft.

Suddenly, the urge to touch was almost too much to bear.

Painful.

“Bruce?” Clark whispered, his Adam’s Apple bobbing in his throat, hands flexing on the mattress. “You okay?”

“Yes,” that one word came out as strangled as he felt, “Can I—”

The muscles in Clark’s belly twitched, his lips quirking up at the corner, “Touch?”

“Yes. Can I touch you?”

It sounded needy. Bruce was so enamored, so enthralled with Clark laid out like this for him, he didn’t care. God, he’d never wanted something more in his life. Ever.

He touched. He traced. He memorized the way the velvety skin felt over the muscles and watched with absolute fascination as his touches obviously aroused Clark and made him fidget on the mattress. It was—better than expected.

Better than he could have hoped for.

“Open your eyes,” Bruce whispered, his heart in his throat, wildly beating against the skin.

“Bruce, I don’t want—”

“Please. Please open your eyes. I’m okay. I want, I want you to see me too. I want to share this.”

Clark’s mouth flattened, his shoulders bunching, “If it’s not okay—”

“I’ll tell you. I’ll use my word. I—just, please. Before I lose my nerve. Just do it.”

Bruce was as beautiful fully clothed as he was bare.

Clark didn’t move a muscle when his eyes flickered open when he was forced to squint against the bathroom light, scant as it was because he’d had his eyes closed for so long. He didn’t breathe.

Bruce was kneeling beside him, not laying. His eyes holding Clark’s like he was determined to make this work, but by the tremors in the man’s hands, he was frightened. Such courage. Such courage that Clark could not fathom, and it blossomed something within Clark to see it.

That love that he felt for Bruce, reached a new level. Something deeper, stronger, more unbreakable. Something that could not be stolen or traded or likely found anywhere else but this bedroom, at this moment, in this act of absolute vulnerability.

“I have—I have a lot of scars.”

Clark could see them. But they weren’t the highlight. They were merely the frame on an exquisite canvass. “Yes. I like them. It’s like a map of your life. Stories of who you are and what you’ve done.”

Bruce’s mouth tipped up, his eyes falling to the mattress as color stained his neck and cheeks making them splotchy. He’d never looked so attractive to Clark. “I’ve never been naked in front of a lover.”

“Never?”

Bruce shook his head, “No. Not really.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“You’d be surprised how many women have been alright with me just undoing a zipper. I think they even half-expected it from me.”

Clark’s brows furrowed, “That’s—”

“Sad? Pathetic? I’m aware.”

“No. That’s unfortunate. Because they were missing out. You’re—you’re breathtaking.”

Bruce’s skin turned a darker red, “You can touch me.”

For a brief moment, Clark could say nothing. He was too stunned. Then his brain caught up and he was desperate not to lose this chance. What Bruce was offering, was sacred. “That won’t be too much?”

“I’ll tell you if it is.”

“Okay.”

It didn’t feel okay. Clark’s hands were shaking when he propped himself up on an elbow and reached tentatively forward to brush fingertips over Bruce’s knee. When Bruce held, when he didn’t flinch away, it was relief that flooded the bedroom. Giddiness, perhaps and such feelings were absolutely drugging. 

Clark moved slow, hold himself back, stifle the greediness that wanted to surge.

But he touched, God, he touched so much skin. The outside of Bruce’s thigh, a hip, the muscles of his stomach that danced when he lingered over that perfect belly button. Bruce’s shoulders were broad like a swimmer and his hips narrow. His ribs a delicate dance of bone and tissue that could have been painted for all their beauty and Bruce let him touch it all.

Clark felt—intoxicated. He felt like he couldn’t get any higher. Like it was almost too much after months of being so careful and there was a part of him that was very, very afraid that tomorrow or a week from now or a month, Bruce would change his mind and they’d lose this. He’d lose the permission he’d finally garnered to do this.

“Feels good.”

“It does?” Clark whispered, a twinge slipping between his ribs to settle under his breastbone. 

“I—I’ve never—I like you touching me. And it’s,” Bruce’s voice got thick, emotion spilling out, “I’ve never equated touching with good. But it feels good.”

Clark smiled, “It does for me too.”

Bruce’s eyes found him, held a long moment then dropped to Clark’s stomach and then lower. Clark wasn’t trying to hide how much this was affecting him. It was obvious anyway. “Do you want to?”

_Oh God, yes. Yes, please._

“Would that be too much?”

Bruce considered a moment, his eyes shifting from sterling to delicate pewter, pupils swelling in earnest want. “I—I don’t know if I can sleep, like this.”

Lust was a heady thing and it shot straight to Clark’s groin when he saw that Bruce was in fact, just as uncomfortable now as he was.

“Side by side?”

Bruce nodded, stretching back out next to Clark, a steady warm presence.

If Clark thought touching was an intimate act, then this was on an entirely different level. And was just as stunning. When they both finished, around the same time, it felt natural to remain still. It felt good to savor the little sounds of Bruce’s heart trying to slow back down to normal. It felt like bliss to hear Bruce’s sleep-drenched voice murmur that he loved Clark like he wasn’t even aware of how monumental that was.

Bruce said he was happy they’d done this.

He said he wanted to do this again.

Clark said the same. And when they were both dressed again and Clark was allowed to wrap around Bruce to sleep, Clark whispered how much he loved Bruce and Bruce whispered it back. 

Progress was good.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how."  
> -Gone With The Wind

“You didn’t bring Clark with you this time.”

Bruce shifted in his seat, eyes fluttering over to the open window where fresh spring air was spilling in. The scent of cut grass and turned soil made the room feel like it was part of the outdoors. It filled Bruce with an odd sense of nostalgia and childhood. It made him wonder what it might have been like to grow up like Clark, out on a farm where he could run barefoot and lose track of time. Where he could have grown up like a normal child.

“No.”

Grace sounded far away. Not so far that it was like some of his earlier visits when everything was underwater and sluggish, but far. He’d been lost in his mind for almost the entire week. Ever since he’d casually said that he loved Clark. Ever since they’d officially graduated to side by side sexual activity.

He didn’t regret it. How could he?

Bruce had never felt so much emotion in one sitting in his life. He’d never felt so—liberated. From his past, from his demons, from what he thought he should be doing. With Clark’s warmth and skin pressed into his, even as minimal as they kept it, he’d found the new intimacy so precious that something else had come to join the mix in his fractured thoughts.

Fear.

Fear of losing that peace was greater than he’d thought it could be. He was afraid of backtracking. Of losing ground or losing Clark altogether.

What if one day Clark got tired of him? What if he didn’t like the pace they were moving at? What if he could never truly have sex, would that be just one thing too many for Clark to cope with in their relationship? And where was their relationship going?

He didn’t see it ending.

Ever.

Sure, they were moving, little by little, step by step, but to what end? To what was the goal? Marriage? Till death do them part? Bruce was afraid to ask. He was afraid that he wanted a commitment from Clark too much. He wanted to hear Clark say he would never leave. Ever. And that frightened him almost as much as the idea of becoming fully intimate with the man. There was a chance, no matter what it was small, that they weren’t on the same page when it came to the possible longevity of their relationship.

Bruce could very likely be more invested than Clark. And the very notion of such things had had him feeling lost. Worried.

“There are many emotions rushing across your face, Bruce. I’m not sure which to pick first for unpacking.”

Bruce blinked sluggishly, tore his gaze up to Grace and frowned, “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

Grace had picked something that smelled like flowers for her tea and it mixed pleasantly with the scents of spring. It made the knots in Bruce’s stomach looser.

“Clark may not want forever with me.”

Grace’s brows puckered, “What makes you say that? Have you discussed this with him?”

“No.”

She sighed, “Bruce, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that assuming can be a very unhelpful tactic. You can’t possibly know what Clark thinks about the direction your relationship is headed if you don’t ask him. I can tell from what I’ve seen, that the man is implicitly invested.”

“But is that enough?”

“I don’t know. You need to ask him. Tying yourself up in knots isn’t healthy and it won’t help your progress.”

When Bruce fell quiet again and started to study the laces of his shoes, Grace leaned closer, reached across the expanse that separated them, and grabbed his wrist. Bruce’s eyes shuttered closed and he focused on the feeling of her warm, soft fingers. He focused on the grounding sensation of her grip and that it was as familiar as his own. Grace was a safe person for him. For all her professional insight, there were too many times over the years that Bruce caught himself viewing her as a maternal substitute. He’d mentioned it once before in previous therapies, expressing concern about getting too attached to her.

Grace had laughed and said it was too late. She was already in love. She too cared very deeply for him.

He supposed it was why he kept coming back. She was very good at her job, yes. But Grace was more than that to him. She was special and they both knew it.

“Talk to Clark. Explain your worries and he will explain his. Don’t get lost in your head. We both know that thoughts not taken captive can be dangerous for you. Bring it out into the light. Let Clark help you unpack it. He will. I’m certain of it.”

When Clark suggested a weekend away at a family cabin out in the middle of nowhere, Bruce was hesitant. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d taken a vacation away from Gotham out on his island. He hardly thought another vacation was in order.

Clark disagreed.

He claimed it was a birthday present and that Bruce would be making him impossibly happy by accepting it. Put in that framework, Bruce had no choice but to pack. He’d be an ass to refuse.

They left on a Friday afternoon and Clark flew them after dark to a cabin, just as advertised that was nestled cozily into the base of a mountain in the Smokey’s. When they landed in the backyard, grass stiff from the cold, and their breaths visible, Bruce didn’t think he’d ever been somewhere so quiet. Not even the Kent farm could claim to be quieter.

It was simply the absence of sound. Like being thrown into a soundproof box that was decorated in brightly lit stars. Despite his unease about leaving Gotham, he felt charmed by Clark’s pick. More than that, he felt—immeasurably softened.

It was easy to strip that night. He and Clark had been doing the new song and dance for weeks. It was easy and it was—god it was good to have Clark watch him with hungry lust-filled eyes when he took off his shirt and stripped out of his briefs. It was good when Clark pressed as close as he was allowed and twined their fingers on the mattress while they quietly both reached their end. Bruce had never felt more certain of things between him and Clark. He’d never felt more at ease about the fact that he was alone in a secluded cabin with a man who wanted him physically.

It was probably the first time he felt no fear whatsoever about it.

“You’ve been very quiet.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Bruce whispered back in the dark. He was curled into Clark’s side, his head pillowed on Clark’s chest, ear flat. The sound of Clark’s heart was a lullaby that had been softly beckoning him towards sleep for the last thirty minutes. Clark’s familiar smell of detergent and clean soap helped too. It was easy to forget when they were like this, sated and worn down, the strength of the hand that rested on the middle of his back. It was easy to forget how quickly and without any effort at all, Clark could overpower him. Could make him do what he wanted.

Clark would never do that.

And Bruce was finally, truly, starting to believe that in more than just his mind. His body felt it too. He felt—safe.

“Grace said I should talk to you about something.”

“Oh?” Bruce felt Clark’s muscles tense, his heart skipping a little faster and smiled into the t-shirt under his cheek.

“It’s nothing bad.”

“Then what is it?” Clark murmured, body relaxing, that hand on the middle of Bruce’s back moving to tangle in Bruce’s hair. The effect was drugging.

“We’ve never really talked about where we see this going.”

“Going?”

“Yes,” Bruce licked his lips, trying to make his voice come out even and devoid of emotion. He was afraid there was no way to keep the yearning _need_ from creeping in. The worrying part of their relationship was that Clark probably never would need Bruce the way Bruce would need Clark. It would never be balanced and there was a very small, very frightened part of Bruce that was afraid of what that might mean. “We said—we said that we loved each other. And not simply as friends. But—”

“As intimate partners, yes.”

Bruce snorted, “Yes. But we haven’t spoken about the future. What does that look like for you?”

“What are you asking me, Bruce?”

“I’m not sure.”

Clark shifted, rolling to his side to prop his head up on his elbow. “What would you like to see the future as?”

Bruce worked for nonchalance but when he sighed, it came out weary, “Together. That’s all that is clear to me.”

Clark’s teeth flashed white in the dark and Bruce could see that he was smiling, “Me too.”

“And you have no doubts—”

“About you?” Clark shook his head, fingers seeking out Bruce’s hand on the bed, grabbing on hard. “No. Never. Is that what this is about? Are you afraid I’ll leave? That I don't want you forever?”

“I—” Bruce closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as his throat went impossible tight, “Maybe.” _Be honest._ “Yes.”

“Babe,” Clark’s mouth was at his temple, lips soft and breath warm, “I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere. I’m in it for the long haul, whatever that looks like. If it means we get married, that’s awesome. If it means we live as man and man till death do us part and do nothing officially, then I’ll be yours that way too. I’m in this. I’m right here.”

“I know.”

But Bruce hadn’t known. He’d been worrying himself into a tight ball of lead since he’d said he loved Clark not knowing if in sharing those words with each other if it meant the same thing. And he was so relieved, so utterly relieved, he could weep.

Clark must have felt Bruce’s relief because he bent down and leaned in to kiss Bruce with agonizing tenderness.

Clark’s mouth was a firm warmth on his in the dark. A heat that sought out heat to match up with and Bruce answered easily enough. With fabric separating their skin, kissing wasn’t such an overload and he could focus on Clark’s mouth. His lips and tongue. His taste. Clark always tasted a little sweet, like he’d had candy and over the months of their relationship, Bruce had found he was impossibly addicted to the taste. It aroused him almost as much as the other tentative touching they’d been working up to.

Clark’s hands were big but impossibly gentle. He never pushed. He never went further than Bruce wanted. He just—he remained. He idled with Bruce, in no hurry to make their kisses deepen or the touches turn hungry.

And it made Bruce all the more willing to let them go that way. It made Bruce near mad with need. He’d never wanted someone so much physically in his life, even though in the back of his mind, he was fully aware that he might panic.

No—he would panic. It was irrefutable.

He needed slow. Even when his body and mind conflicted, perhaps, especially. Slower was safer for everyone. He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to lose this.

“God, Bruce,” Clark ground the words out, his breath choppy as he broke the kiss off and rested his forehead on Bruce’s, “I know we just—but I’ve never wanted someone like this. I’ve never felt so turned on in my life.”

“Yeah,” Bruce’s voice sounded alarmingly slurred, “Me neither. Keep kissing me.”

Clark did. They kissed for so long that Bruce’s chin got raw and red and they ended up falling asleep smashed almost face to face. It was one of those nights that Bruce quietly filed away in his memories as one of the perfect ones. One of the ones that almost didn’t feel real.

Clark was no stranger to lengthy text conversations with Bruce. Occasionally, they even participated in straight-up fights via text, to avoid having all-out war in person. Over the course of the years, they’d been friends, Clark had learned to accommodate Bruce’s often terse way of communicating and his lack of interest in face to face confrontations.

If Bruce wanted something and he feared a fight, he’d probably text you.

If he thought it was going to be a fight, even a possibility of a fight, he’d text.

Bad news—text.

Loving words that made him too embarrassed to utter aloud—also in the form of a text.

Clark was used to it.

But he was still a little stunned when Bruce surprised him midday at his computer with a text saying,

_Let’s get more hands-on tonight. I’m ready._

Hands-on? More? With what? Did Bruce mean he was ready for sex? Sex, _sex_? Or something else? And if so, wasn’t he skipping ahead by a few steps? Moving too quickly? Not that Clark would blame him, because they _were_ moving pretty slow, but he’d never expected to have this conversation over text messages sitting at his desk.

The very idea of having Bruce naked beneath him made Clark’s slacks so tight it was a wonder he didn’t burst into tears. He’d not be able to get up from his desk now without fear of getting caught. _Thanks a lot, Bruce._

**_I’m at work, Bruce._**

**** _I know. Me too._

Clark shook his head, his mouth twitching into a smile. He could hear the dry humor in Bruce’s text.

**_We’ll talk about it tonight when I get home. Ok?_**

**** _I’ve already made up my mind._

_**After work. We’ll talk.**_

Bruce was suspiciously quiet at dinner. He said very little about his day and only managed to smile at Damian when the kid did a valiant attempt at telling jokes. Damian was terrible at them, but Bruce was a good sport and laughed in all the right places. It was nice to see how well-adjusted Damian had become over the course of the last few years. He’d come to Wayne Manor as an angry little boy, devoid of emotion and already hardened by the world. Now, all doe-eyed and wildly talking about joining the basketball team, Damian was quickly becoming one of Clark’s favorite Wayne children. Though Clark would _never_ share that tidbit aloud. Bruce was staunchly against favorites, as he well should be.

So, dinner was pleasant, but Clark could practically feel the nervous energy pouring off of Bruce in waves. The man was doing nothing to hide it from Clark. Which only made Clark more anxious himself. 

After the meal, Alfred offered to help Damian with some of his math homework and Timothy claimed he wanted to go out with a few friends. Bruce agreed far too easily and said he was too tired to go out on patrol anyway and was feeling a little under the weather. Only Clark knew different. Everyone else, though they likely also knew Bruce was lying, said nothing.

Clark had never been more nervous in his life.

He followed Bruce up to their bedroom and said absolutely nothing in reply when Bruce claimed he needed a shower before bed. Clark took the chair by the window, forced himself to grab the book he’d borrowed from Alfred on horticulture and poured over the same damn paragraph for the hour it took Bruce to emerge. When Bruce did finally come out, he slipped out of the bathroom with not a stitch of clothing on.

Naked. Bruce was _naked._

Every drop of moisture in Clark’s mouth dried up and his heart launched into his throat.

_Mine, mine, mine._

“Bruce—” he choked out, eyes gobbling up all that skin easily visible in the late evening sunlight dripping through the window. The contrast in shadow to light made delicious lines on Bruce’s skin. It made him look just a touch unreal. And it might have been perfect, it might have felt like staring into the sun for the first time or that rush right before falling when bungee jumping, except Bruce, wasn’t looking at him.

His eyes were glued to the floor and every muscle in his body was taut with obvious anxiety.

“I—I thought we could—”

“Bruce,” Clark interrupted, finally finding his voice, “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Bruce swallowed, the muscles of his throat dancing prettily as he did so. Clark was entranced by the motion of it. “I know that. But I—” soft, frightened gray eyes finally looked up at Clark and Clark couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. “I want to.”

“It’s—too soon. You’re not ready.”

“I’m ready,” Bruce whispered, “I’m ready for more.”

“Okay,” Clark nodded, aware he sounded hoarse. For Christ sake, he was staring at the man he loved offering himself up as a sacrificial lamb. That—did things to him. It made him feel intensely protective and absurdly turned on at the same time. “Let’s just do what Grace said then. Let’s just help each other this time. Still side by side. But—”

Bruce blew out a breath that sounded like relief, but Clark couldn’t say for certain over the sound of his own heart throbbing in the shells of his ears. Even touching Bruce so intimately, _helping_ him, made his belly hollow and his hands itchy. “But more hands-on,” Bruce nodded quickly, “Yes. That’s what I want.”

“Okay.”

Clark didn’t know how he managed to finally stand up. His body felt numb and yet, strangely on fire, like flames were licking everywhere just under the flesh making it almost impossible to be coordinated enough to move. But he did manage. He got over to the bed, standing a couple of feet from Bruce and then Bruce was closing the distance between them and Clark could see Bruce’s hands shaking and it—it broke something inside of Clark’s chest for Bruce.

It made his eyes sting and his throat tight. It simmered the fire in his veins, so it wasn’t so bright and all-consuming. It slowed everything to a crawl and Clark was glad for the clarity. He needed to stay clear and not lose himself to this. No matter how heady it was making him. He needed to be in control. For Bruce.

“Don’t.”

Clark’s eyes jumped to Bruce’s and held. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t pity me.”

“I don’t.”

Clark held perfectly still as Bruce undressed him. Bruce was like a graceful panther, his movements careful and controlled, muscles coiling sharply under porcelain skin. By the time he’d gotten Clark just as naked, bright color had blossomed in his cheeks and he looked softer than Clark could ever recall seeing him. He looked like the man Clark wanted to wake next to for the rest of his life.

Affection was a petty term in comparison to what Clark felt when Bruce struggled to come close again when he traced lines into Clark’s skin and sipped breaths of air in the hollow of Clark’s throat. Bruce was so human in those moments. So fucking fragile it was incomprehensible to Clark. He wanted to crush Bruce to his chest, seal him inside of his impenetrable skin and never let anything touch Bruce again. Never let anything near enough to hurt him.

The feeling was so strong, so overpowering that for a moment, he could only wrap his arms around Bruce’s shoulders and hold. 

Bruce _melted_ at the contact, a soft sigh slipping from him and Clark managed to only kiss Bruce’s forehead, whispering how careful he would be. Making promises he usually didn’t voice for fear of running Bruce off. But if anything, they made Bruce more relaxed the more promises Clark made.

Clark had learned early on, that it helped during their interactions to pepper words throughout whatever they were doing. It kept Bruce grounded in the present. It reminded him who he was with, right then.

It reminded him that it was Clark touching, not Philip. That the touches were good and safe and pleasurable. Never meant to hurt.

So much contact, after such carefully laid down restraints, was intoxicating. Clark drank up the nearness and the sounds Bruce couldn’t keep quiet as they moved carefully to the bed and laid down side by side. It was a familiar position to be in, but this time, Clark let his hands trail over Bruce’s ribs, down to his hips, along vulnerable inner thighs.

It was intensely rewarding knowing that he was directly responsible for Bruce’s pleasure. It was like nothing they’d done before. Not even close. Touching Bruce, sharing those moments of vulnerability, was better than anything Clark could have hoped for. And he was greedy to do it again.

And again. And again. As many times as Bruce would let him.

For all the physical release it offered them, sharing those moments together, helping each other find that frightening edge of pleasure, was more of a spiritual release than a physical one. Clark had never experienced intimacy the way he was experiencing it with Bruce.

He’d never thought to feel so close to anyone. The longer they were together, the more they traveled down the dark paths of Bruce’s mind and overcame his demons, the closer they came to be like one.

Clark thought for once, he might understand what the Bible said about becoming one flesh, one mind, one spirit. He was very much being knitted together with Bruce in ways he’d never anticipated and would die to keep.

“It was good?” Clark hummed, nuzzling closer to Bruce, a little needy to keep contact. They’d still not gotten up to get dressed, something they usually did straight away, and Bruce was still panting, sweat glistening on his chest and belly. His pale skin looked so flushed, he looked sunburned. He was the most beautiful thing Clark had ever laid eyes on.

“Yes. Very.”

“Do you regret anything?”

Bruce shook his head weakly, eyes still glossy and lost, “No. Never. Not with you.”

“Good.”

No sweeter words had ever been given.

_My dearest Bruce,_

_I have not spoken to you in many, many years. What happened when you were just a boy, was regrettable. I have paid my debt to society and wish I could undo what was done. I was a weak man and for that, I am sorry._

_I am contacting you because I am dying. As you know, your Aunt passed away the year previous and it seems it is my time. I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and it is aggressively taking my life. I will not be on this earth for much longer. It is for that express reason that I have chosen now to reach out to you._

_I do not want to die and leave things as they are. I want to beg for forgiveness._

_I would like to see you, dear nephew, in person at your earliest convenience. I have much that needs to be said and not much time to say it. Please allow me this last wish._

_Sincerely,_

_Uncle Philip_

Bruce didn’t get the letter that was left on his desk till he broke for lunch. He’d just closed one of the most insidiously mundane board meetings he’d ever come across. Admittedly tired and feeling bitter about having to put in a few more hours at the office, he almost brushed the letter aside in favor of getting his review of the quarterly sums done instead.

Except for the odd letterhead.

He knew no one in Helen’s Hospice of Gotham. Not that he could recall.

The moment he opened the letter and saw the script, familiar and jarring, he dropped the missive like it was poison and physically stepped back. He backed up so far his shoulder blades hit the vast panel of windows at his rear and an odd sense of numbness flooded his veins. Cold. He felt cold. Like ice was clinging to the back of his neck and dripping down the backs of his legs. Bruce reached into his pocket, felt the edges of his phone, drew it out and dialed blindly.

He knew it was Clark’s voice on the other end of the phone. He knew Clark was supposed to mean safety.

But he felt—nothing. Just cold. Seeping and crawling, encasing him inch by inch.

“ _Bruce_?”

Bruce opened his mouth, tried to speak, tried to make something come out of him, but nothing did. His jaw was clenched too tightly, painfully grinding his teeth together till the muscles on his skull ached. He was shaking. He was shaking so badly he could barely keep the phone up by his face and he couldn’t fucking move. Not one muscle.

Paralyzed.

That’s what it felt like. It felt like someone had stabbed a gutting blade into his spinal column and rendered him useless.

“ _Bruce?”_

Bruce finally managed a sound. Not even a real word. But it came out like a strangled whimper and it was humiliating. He wanted to be stronger. He wanted to not react like this. But he—he simply couldn’t.

“ _I’m coming, B. I’m coming right now. You’re safe. You’re alright. It’s okay.”_

Bruce wanted to believe him, he really did. But the letter lying on his office floor, the familiar script glaring up with eyes and a face and a mouth he knew from his nightmares, said that he wasn’t safe.

He wasn’t safe at all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been doing a lot of personal growth in my absence from this fic. I'm hoping to delve back in and I appreciate ya'll being patient with me. Thanks!

The flight from Metropolis to Gotham only took ninety seconds. Maybe less.

But it was an eternity.

Clark landed on the roof of Wayne tower and broke in with little care as to the possible security fiasco he could be creating. Bruce needed him and he needed him now.

He wasn’t sure what he was walking into. Blood, broken bones, tears. It could be any or all. When he burst into Bruce’s office just beneath the penthouse suite, every hair on his body went stiff in alarm.

Bruce’s office looked empty.

A single piece of heavy stock paper lay like a carcass in the center of the room. But nothing else was out of place. Nothing looked disturbed or broken.

“Bruce?”

Clark said softly, stepping further into the room with his shoulders stiff and his hands fisted. The alarm rattling in his skull, threatening to overload and overwhelm was like sludge in his veins. Something was terribly wrong.

“Bruce?” Clark tried again, stalking deeper into the office, inhaling the scents of coffee and Bruce’s cologne, carpet cleaner. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Clark got to the center of the office, where the piece of paper was still lying face down and bent to pick it up. That was when he heard him.

An expensive dress shoe slipping on carpeting. A frantic heart rate he should have picked up on even before he was in the office, but Clark was too busy having his own panic attack to stop and simply think.

Bruce was hiding.

Beneath the desk.

There was an odd lurch that happened in Clark’s gut when he circled the heavy mahogany desk and then squatted down to peer beneath it into the shadows. The lurch became a twisting knife, one that pierced and burned when he found Bruce huddled into the smallest ball he’d ever seen the man manage, with his face buried in his knees and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs.

“Bruce—I’m here now. You’re safe.”

Bruce didn’t move. He didn’t break from his position and instead of forcing him out, Clark decided it would be best to wait. He sat down, one hand reaching tentatively beneath the desk to hold Bruce’s ankle, like an anchor to reality and he waited.

He waited till the sun dipped behind the buildings in Gotham and the city beneath them became a blanket of white-washed lights and red taillights. Till the people were ants and the sirens were screaming. Screaming like banshees in the night, hailing a terror that only Gotham could manage after dark.

Then—only then did Bruce finally come out of whatever place he’d gone into hiding.

Clark could only imagine it was a lot darker and quieter than beneath his desk.

“Hey,” Clark whispered, his throat tight as he watched Bruce crawl out from beneath the desk and wince when he straightened.

Bruce blinked owlishly up at him, around his office, then stared hard at the paper still in the middle of the office. Clark still hadn’t seen what was on the paper. But he’d bet all of his savings, however little that was, that the letter had everything to do with Bruce’s response and subsequent panic.

“What happened, B?”

Bruce swallowed, eyes still glued to the paper on the floor. “He wrote me.”

“He wrote you,” Clark murmured, unsure what Bruce meant.

“Yes,” Bruce nodded slowly, his arms curling around his stomach like they needed to keep pressure on a gaping wound. “Philip. He wrote to me.”

Every muscle in Clark’s body went rigid.

“He—he what?”

“The letter,” Bruce dipped his chin at the paper on the floor and Clark forced his body to unlock so he could retrieve it. He stood several feet away from Bruce to read it. He read the lines, in scrawling aristocratic script three times before looking up. It took him that long to control his response.

It took him that long to keep from shredding the letter into a thousand tiny shreds.

Rage was creeping, like forbidden insects up his arms and legs, through his middle and Clark knew it wouldn’t be helpful just then. He knew Bruce didn’t need his rage at the injustice of being contacted by Philip. But—but it was nearly impossible to control. It felt like swallowing glass.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Do?”

Clark nodded, “Yes. What would you like me to do? Take you home? Call Grace? Burn this and—and pretend like you never saw it? Tell me how to help you,” he swallowed, suddenly aware of a hard lump in his throat and pressure at the backs of his eyes. “Please.”

Bruce shook his head, “I don’t—I don’t know.”

Clark’s hand was shaking on the letter, his fingers curling into the edge of it, crinkling the pristine paper.

“Alright,” he could control himself. He could. He _had_ to control himself. “Let’s go home.”

Clark folded the letter mechanically, put it on Bruce’s desk, then walked over and grabbed Bruce’s hand.

*** 

Bruce woke to the sound of birds and the smell of fresh cut grass.

The window had been left open and the breeze fluttered in, pushing on the curtains and bringing the scent of the grounds crew’s work. He could hear the low rumble of mowers as they worked, far off in the distance.

Lulling, soft and familiar.

Clark’s arm was a heavy weight around his middle, pinning him to the mattress, keeping him grounded after a night of violently terrifying nightmares. The longest stretch he’d managed to sleep had totaled maybe an hour. Exhaustion clung like a second skin to the bedroom and her occupants. But Bruce was wide awake, too afraid to close his eyes and battle the demons once more.

Too weary to even try.

“You should try and sleep.”

Bruce closed his eyes, focusing on the warm breath on his neck, the smell of Clark’s skin, the heat of a bigger, stronger, frame pressed into his back and legs. It should be odd that Clark’s body created so little of a fear response in him, but it had become second-nature to curl into Clark as his shield. 

“I can’t.”

Clark shifted and Bruce felt the outline of lips on his spine through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. “I called Grace last night. She wants to see you today.”

“What time?”

“In about an hour.”

“That’s fine.”

Clark traced an infinity sign into his neck, down one shoulder then, his right bicep. “Do you want a shower first?”

“No.”

Bruce dressed in sweatpants. He couldn’t remember the last time he was willing to leave the house in such casual attire, but he couldn’t make himself get into anything else. The idea of undressing sounded like too much work. Even breathing, making one breath come after the next, after the next—felt like too much work.

Clark waited in the waiting room when Bruce went with Grace.

He sat on the couch, soft leather and smelled Grace’s tea that she’d brewed permeating every inch of her warm office. Peppermint.

Then he stared blankly at her and felt—nothing. Nothing at all.

“Clark told me you received a letter from Philip yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“And it resulted in a panic attack and then some nightmares. Did you also experience any flashbacks?”

Bruce blinked. Once. Twice. “Yes.”

“Any this morning?”

“No.”

Grace sat quietly for long breaths and Bruce let his thoughts drift and his eyes wander over her bookshelves. He liked how she alphabetized them by author. He’d always admired that despite Grace’s general appearance of a delicate flower child, she was stringently organized and kept excellent records. She was a woman who took her job very, very seriously.

Someone to be trusted and depended upon.

“Bruce—” Graces’ voice sounded far away, buried in an ocean of thoughts and he had to wade through the waters to reach for her. “Bruce—you are here. With me, right now in my office. Can you say that?”

Bruce blinked when his eyes burned and struggled to make his gaze connect with Grace’s. When he did manage, she was smiling gently at him, one hand was wrapped around his wrist and he recognized the soft pads of her fingers. He felt the gentle callouses and the slightly wrinkled skin.

It all helped to ground him in the moment, like having a tether to the ground when he was frighteningly close to floating away. A child’s balloon with no sticky hand to grasp it.

“I am here,” he murmured, “with you now.”

“Yes,” Grace, nodded, “And you are safe.”

His eyes burned worse, the stinging sensation like needles at the backs, pressing at him to let go. To just—let it all go.

“I’m safe.”

“Quite safe.”

Bruce drew in a shaky breath, bit his tongue till he tasted copper then felt the heat of wet trailing down one cheek. Then the other. Until his face was wet and he was silently crying, shoulders shaking, and the pressure Grace’s office didn’t feel like enough to hold all the agony in.

He broke for nine minutes. Grace wrapped around him, arms thin but strong enough to keep him from falling apart completely and Bruce leaned hard. She didn’t break. The world did not end.

When he sat splotchy-faced and empty, one tissue crumpled in his hand, Bruce felt like he’d lost ten pounds of lead from his gut.

“I’m sorry he contacted you.”

“I—” Bruce shrugged a shoulder, suddenly blisteringly tired, “I don’t know what to think.”

“You don’t have to think anything.”

“He never should have.”

“No.”

Bruce nodded slowly, “But he did and now I just—”

“You owe him nothing, Bruce,” Grace’s brows were furrowed, her eyes a biting color that Bruce had scarcely seen. “He doesn’t deserve absolution and it isn’t your place to give it to him.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“I—” Bruce swallowed around the lump in his throat, “I do.”

“You don’t need to decide what you want to do today.”

Bruce nodded again. He didn’t know what else to say. Or do. He was still adrift, ripped wide by something he’d never expected to be a problem. He’d never thought Uncle Philip would ever contact him again. Ever. He’d foolishly thought the man had moved on.

“If you have thoughts of hurting yourself—I want you to call me. Any time, day or night. I will come to you.”

Bruce blinked up at Grace and frowned, “You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to,” she smiled, one only a mother might be able to offer, “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“Alright.”

“Do you promise you’ll call? Any time?”

“I promise.”

Two days went by.

Bruce thought of cutting for two days—but not killing. In some twisted way, he was oddly proud of that. Clark stayed close, hyperaware of his every move and Alfred kept just as watchful. Bruce tried not to chafe at the supervision and reminded himself that he needed it. But by the third day, he felt like he was suffocating.

He needed space.

Air.

Something.

“Clark,” Bruce murmured, breaking his focus from the laptop he’d been working on to find Clark lifting a brow at him from the sofa. They were in Clark’s apartment, sprawled in the living room, both working separately on projects and cases. Bruce thought Clark mentioned something about working on an article deadline before the weekend. But he couldn’t be certain. Admittedly, he’d not really been paying attention to anything anyone had been saying to him for days. He’d been like a sieve—letting things pass straight through him.

Grace told him that was normal. And to be expected.

It made him feel not quite human.

“Problem?”

“No. I uh—would you mind picking up some Thai for dinner?”

“You’re hungry?”

There was a genuine surprise in the question, mostly because Bruce’s appetite had been nonexistent and every time someone had suggested he eat something, he’d gotten surly about it.

“I could eat.”

Clark closed the lid of his laptop slowly, turning so his feet here flat on the floor, “You don’t actually want food.”

“I—I want a little alone time.”

“For what?”

Bruce snorted, “For alone time. I’m not planning on hurting myself.”

Clark nodded slowly, “Sorry. That came out wrong. I just worry.”

“I know. And you’ve got a good reason to. But I’m feeling claustrophobic and if I don’t get some space, I’m going to find a way to get it. I know you would prefer that I stay nearby.”

“Yes.”

“So—go get us some dinner. Do it the natural way so it takes longer. And we’ll watch a movie or something when you get back.”

Clark hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin white line, then he stood, brushing both hands down his jeans to eradicate the wrinkles from sitting for so long. They’d been working for hours, silently avoiding the elephant in the room. Bruce was grateful for Clark not pushing him. He really was.

But he also felt like everyone was waiting for him to either run for the knife block or dart out the door to confront Philip. 

“I’ll make sure to give you at least an hour then.”

“Thanks, Clark.”

“Sure.”

Clark sounded like he was being asked to pull teeth. 

But when the apartment fell silent and Bruce was truly alone for the first time in days, he found himself wandering around with the flimsy film of peace shimmering into place. Bruce looked at framed photographs—himself and Clark. The Kent farm and family standing proudly in front of the stereotypical red barn. Clark’s childhood dog who’d passed many years previous.

He cataloged the details of the man he loved until he found himself smiling.

Until the tension in his spine and limbs lessened and didn’t feel so paralyzing.

Then Bruce put coffee on, something as natural as breathing, picked up a discarded print of the Daily Planet and perused the sports section. He read Clark’s article on the fight for gun control in the Senate, filled out half the crossword puzzle on the back, then meandered to the bathroom.

He’d not showered since the letter.

Clark had been quiet about it. Careful not to mention that Bruce probably was starting to smell. Sure, he’d not exercised. He’d also been wiping down with washcloths and using extra deodorant, but they both knew he’d been avoiding the actual process of being naked.

Bruce couldn’t say why exactly. Because it made him feel vulnerable? Disgusting? Angry? All of those things in varying levels?

He didn’t know.

But standing in front of Clark’s tiny bathroom mirror, looking at dark circles and thin cheeks liberally dusted in whiskers, he suddenly felt a wellspring of energy. He felt—almost frenzied to get clean and to scrape away the old.

Bruce dropped his clothes at the sink counter, turned on the water to scalding hot, and stepped beneath the spray without checking the temperature. It burned his nerve endings straight away and he gritted his teeth to stay put.

Bruce wasn’t a masochist.

Not really.

But being unable to cut, though he desperately wanted to, meant getting creative about how to cope with the feelings that were bubbling and frothing up his throat, threating to spill onto every living thing in his vicinity. He stood under the spray until the sting of it became nothing more than a drumming numbness, then he scrubbed his skin raw, shaved, and stood a bit longer just to be sure it was all gone.

What—he couldn’t have said exactly. But he had to be sure. He had to be sure the rest of whatever had gotten on him from Uncle Philip’s letter was eradicated and flushed down the shower drain.

By the time Bruce heard the front door opening, he was out of the shower and dressing in a pair of Clark’s sweats. He swam in them and had to cinch the waistband up, but they were warm and felt like armor. He found he much preferred them to his other ones.

Clark might not get them back.

Forcing a smile on his mouth, Bruce walked back toward the kitchen and saw Clark unloading a small bag of take-out onto the counter. When they met eyes across the kitchen, Clark’s lips twitched in a returning smile as he took in the sweats and Bruce’s wet hair.

“You showered.”

“I did.”

“And you stole my sweats.”

Bruce shrugged, “I like them better than mine.”

Clark smiled fully then, the relief reaching his eyes, “They do look better on you than me.”

Bruce studiously looked away and pretended not to notice how much Clark’s entire posture and light changed. He’d been scaring Clark. Again.

He didn’t want to think about it.

“It smells delicious. What did you get?”

“Green curry and pad thai. Couple other things. I got a variety.”

It was a testament to how long it had actually been since Bruce had consumed anything when his stomach growled in response drawing bother their attention. Clark’s gaze was sharp and assessing. Worried again.

Bruce made his steps purposeful, careful, as he closed the distance between them. He’d not kissed Clark. He’d barely touched Clark, aside from the nearly suffocating need to be guarded in his sleep. Now, looking up at the man who was ever-patient, ever-watchful, and ever-careful with him, he wanted to.

It was an odd kiss. Layered in fear, on both their parts, but it quickly became less about fear and more about connecting once more.

Clark tasted like mint lozenges and his lips were soft. He was warmer than Bruce, always had been, but this time Bruce leaned into the heat, happy to have it to erase and smother the memories of cool damp he never wanted to remember.

When they drew apart, Clark kept a hand on his elbow, anchoring their hips together as he rested his forehead on Bruce’s. The shared breathing space might have been uncomfortable to someone else.

It might have been even to Bruce.

But just then, Bruce wanted Clark to keep breathing on him—with him. He wanted Clark to _help_ him breathe, over and over. To keep reminding him how alive and real he was. How much he wanted to be alive and real _with_ him.

“Better?” Clark whispered, brushing those warm lips back over his with infinite care.

“A little.”

“Bruce I—” 

“Not now,” Bruce shook his head, stepping back, “Let’s just be us tonight. We can talk more tomorrow.”

Or the next day. Or the next.

He didn’t know when or if he would ever be ready to talk about what to do with Uncle Philip. Grace had said he didn’t owe Philip anything. Even more paramount, he didn’t need to do anything to feel better about it.

But—but still—

“Alright, just us.” 

Bruce blinked, dragged his mind back to Clark and Clark only. “Yes, just us.”

***

Bruce remained quiet. Days blurred into a week and then another.

Clark did and said nothing.

How could he? How could he demand after everything Bruce was going through that he speak about something that he clearly didn’t want to?

Clark wanted to find Philip and silence the problem.

He’d never been violent by nature. It wasn’t just about how he was raised, Clark suspected it was something to do with his makeup. He cared about peace more than many other people. It did something for him, like being able to drink clean water every day or breathe fresh air. It was important to him.

But he wanted Philip and all the threats that Philip brought gone.

Clark worked diligently not to bring it up. He took Bruce to see Grace twice a week and held him when the nightmares got the better of him. He studiously ignored Bruce’s revulsion to anything save kissing and side-stepped discussions about Bruce’s health when asked by the JLA. They were worried about him. And to some degree, they had every right to be. Bruce was withdrawn and moody—more so than usual. He was perhaps the most introspective and lost in his own mind, Clark had ever seen him.

And it made Clark feel like he was foaming at the mouth to do _something_.

On the seventeenth day post-letter, Alfred called him at work and said he was needed right away.

He didn’t hesitate. He barely even warned Perry he was leaving before deserting the Planet and flying to Gotham. He got to the Manor in time to see Alfred carefully arranging his face, struggling to put away feelings he obviously didn’t want to share.

It immediately got his back up and had him poised for something ugly.

He wasn’t wrong.

“We’ve received another letter.”

“From Philip?”

Alfred shook his head slowly, “From Talia. She is filing for full-custody of Damian.”

Clark stared, felt incredulity mix with shock then blinked dumbly at the counter where a letter had been carefully refolded and put back into its envelope.

“You read it before Bruce.”

“I thought it best to. All things considered.”

Clark didn’t blame the man. “She’s out of her mind if she thinks she can do that. What makes her think she has any chance of getting Damian from Bruce?”

Alfred’s eyes snapped a quiet rage that Clark had grown to respect over the years of knowing him. The older man might have been softer spoken, but he was no less passionate than Bruce, or any of the boys for that matter.

“She is citing Bruce’s mental health. Suicidal ideations and the like.”

“But—”

“She has records. Proof of his past hospitalizations, medications, and therapies.”

“That’s ridiculous. She can’t use any of that. It’s a violation of HIPPA and most likely tampered with. Not to mention, it’s morally objectionable. If he’s following his physician’s orders and staying in compliance, she doesn’t have a case.”

“No doubt. But she’s going to try and even if she loses, I am afraid it will be one thing too many for Master Bruce.”

Clark had to breathe through the murderous flickers that gobbled at his self-control and barely managed to slow it. He could add one more name to the list which was growing of those who ought to be taken care of.

“Evil. She’s evil.”

“Yes,” Alfred agreed. “She is. I asked you here because I’m not certain of what to do.”

“You can’t seriously be suggesting we don’t tell Bruce.”

Alfred shrugged helplessly, “I wasn’t. But I want to do this carefully. And I need—I need your help, Master Clark.”

Clark’s shoulders fell, his chest clutching, “Of course, Alfred. I’m here. Always. You don’t even need to ask it.”

“Good,” Alfred sniffed delicately, his eyes suspiciously watery, “Because I think we need to speak with him sooner rather than later. I received the petition for full-custody from our lawyer just today.”

“So, it’s already begun.”

“I’m afraid so.”


End file.
